


Four Cups of Wine

by borealowl



Series: Four Cups of Wine and related stories [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Found Family, Hanukkah, I Don't Even Know, Jewish Character, Jewish Good Omens (Good Omens), Lesbians, M/M, Pesach | Passover, Pining, Purim, Rosh HaShana | Jewish New Year, Shavuot, Sukkot | Tabernacles, Yom Kippur | Atonement Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-06-03 03:02:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 56,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19454977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borealowl/pseuds/borealowl
Summary: Crowley is terrified of losing Aziraphale again, but unable to confess his feelings. He follows Aziraphale on an errand to America, where they end up invited to a seder and spend the next year being invited to other holidays and gatherings on both sides of the Atlantic. Is Crowley's pining painfully obvious to everyone but Aziraphale? (Yes.) Are the rabbi and her wife going to try and get them together? (Yes.) How many Jewish holidays will these two ineffable idiots be invited to before they finally admit their feelings to each other? (Read it and see!)(And because someone requested it, there is now a link to brief explanatory notes about the various Jewish terms at the beginning of each chapter.)





	1. Four Cups of Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone requested that I explain the Jewish terminology in the story. After [a fair amount of handwringing](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/260449850), I agreed. So if you're really confused, or you want a handy reference sheet with explanatory links, I am slowly going back and adding one for each chapter. [Here's the one for this chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/262659670).

“Remind me again why we had to come all the way to America for a book, angel?” Crowley asks as they walk through the streets of Manhattan.

“ _I_ had to come because I need to authenticate it properly before I decide whether to purchase it. I don’t know why you decided to tag along.”

Crowley grumbles, unwilling to explain his reasons.

He has spent six thousand years regretting two things: first, that he'd managed to fall in love with an angel, and second, that he was never going to do anything about it. Eight months ago, he discovered a new, much worse regret: arriving too late. He'd run into the book shop, and there was nothing but flame and ash, and no Aziraphale. At that point, it no longer mattered that the world was going to end.

Of course, the world didn't end, and Aziraphale made his way back, and even the book shop had been restored by the remarkably good-natured young Antichrist. But Crowley couldn't shake the memory of standing in the burning bookstore with that awful gaping hole in his heart. He was not going to risk losing Aziraphale again. If that means accompanying the angel across the Atlantic just to retrieve yet another misprinted bible, so be it.

But he wasn't going to say that out loud.

Crowley had been expecting Aziraphale’s book vendor to be some dusty old man in a moldy old shop, so he’s rather surprised to find himself on a university campus, meeting a short middle-aged woman with a mass of curly brown hair and thick glasses.

“Office hours ended fifteen—oh, you’re not students. Can I help you?”

“Professor Lipsky? I’m A.Z. Fell. We’ve exchanged electronic mails about a rare bible in your collection.”

The woman’s wary look melts away, replaced by a warm smile. “Of course, Mr. Fell! How lovely to meet you in person. And…?” She looks at Crowley.

“This is my associate, Anthony Crowley.”

“Naomi Lipsky, nice to meet you.” She shakes both their hands, then frowns. “Weren’t you supposed to be arriving yesterday?”

“Yes, well, there was some trouble at the airport.” Aziraphale glares at Crowley, who grins proudly. It had taken months, and bribes, and tempting thoughts, a little bit of light poisoning (nothing fatal), and some demonically-induced naps, but every single air traffic controller within a day’s drive of Heathrow had failed to show up for work yesterday. Flights are going to be backed up for _weeks_. 

The woman continues to frown thoughtfully. “Oh yes, I thought I saw something about in the paper. I’m glad you were able to make it, but I’m sorry to say you’ve come at a bit of an inconvenient time. We’re having our seder tonight—in fact, I’m going to be heading home in about half an hour to help with cleaning and preparations. It's not really the best time to talking rare books.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says. “That is unfortunate.”

After a bit of an awkward pause, the professor appears to come to a decision.

“Actually, I don't suppose you'd be interested in attending? It’s a potluck, and we always invite any of my students who aren’t able to make it home for Passover, so two more people won’t make a difference. I feel bad, having you come all this way, and with the delayed flight and such, just to brush you off.”

Aziraphale asks, “Are you sure you don't mind inviting two strangers? We’d hate to be a bother.”

“ _You’d_ hate to be a bother, anyway” mutters Crowley, smirking when Aziraphale shoots him another glare. 

Prof. Lipsky smiles. “We're hardly strangers, after all the conversations we've had on the book forum! And it really is no problem at all. I’ll just text my wife to let her know. _And_ you can take a peek at the book while we’re setting up, if you’re interested.”

Aziraphale smiles back. “In that case, we’d be glad to accept your kind invitation.”

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Wonderful!” Her phone buzzes. “And, that’s Yael, saying she’d be delighted to have you both. Now, I have to get these grades submitted before I leave tonight, so do you mind waiting in the faculty lounge? It’s just down the hall.”

“Actually, why don’t we pick up something to contribute to the potluck. Is there anything that would be useful?”

“We could always use more wine. But you really don’t have to.”

“Nonsense,” says Aziraphale firmly. “We’d be happy to.”

To say that Crowley is starting to regret coming along would be misleading—he’s been regretting his decision since before they even left. But if he'd stayed in London, he would have spent the entire time worrying that Aziraphale might never come home. And, annoying as it is to admit it--even to himself--he would miss the angel. 

On the subway ride, Aziraphale and Naomi mostly talk about books. Naomi has a whole story about how a Jewish Studies professor ended up with a rare Christian bible that Aziraphale seems to find fascinating. Crowley, bored and sulking, distracts himself by trying to think of trouble he could cause that wouldn’t stop the train and leave them stranded underground. Unfortunately, the humans are once again better at his job than he is—the train dancers, the couple having a noisy breakup, and the man loudly announcing the coming apocalypse all do a much better job annoying people and inducing uncharitable thoughts than anything Crowley could think up.

“You’re about eight months too late,” he informs the subway prophet as they finally, finally exit the train.

At the brownstone, Naomi introduces them to her wife Yael, an elegant woman with long dark hair. Naomi then takes Aziraphale off to look at the book, leaving Crowley with Yael.

“Are you a book dealer as well?”

“Do I _look_ like I sell books?” The last time he said this to someone, Aziraphale’s shop was on fire, and Crowley thought he was gone forever. He’s got to stop dwelling on this, but. Aziraphale. Gone. He shakes his head.

Yael shrugs. “I’ll assume that’s a no. So is this a vacation for you?”

“Not bloody likely. I only came to keep an eye on him.” He waves a hand in the general direction of Aziraphale’s voice.

“Ahh.” Yael smiles at him in understanding. Understanding _what_ , Crowley wasn’t sure.

The place slowly fills with people as more guests arrive—two students, an older couple with children, most of them bringing a large plate or bowl of food. Crowley refuses to learn anyone’s name. Eventually, Yael and Naomi direct everyone to the table, where each plate has some sort of book placed on it. Crowley stifles a groan. A dinner with humans and now’s he expected to read? Aziraphale, of course, is beaming.

The dinner starts off promising, with a cup of wine. Aziraphale has gotten carried away again, and provided twelve bottles of very nice red, and Crowley fills his glass to the brim before drinking it down.

Things take a less promising turn when everyone is expected to rinse their hands.

“Holy water?” Crowley murmurs to Aziraphale.

“I don’t think so, but it is a ritual purification thing. Hmm….”

“I’m not willing to risk it, are you?”

Aziraphale speaks up. “I’m sorry, Crowley isn’t going to be able to use the shared bowl. Will that be a problem?”

Yael tilts her head. "Health reasons?" 

Aziraphale nods. "Something like that."

Yael thinks for a moment. “Perhaps you could wash your hands in the kitchen sink instead? If not, we can figure something else out.”

Crowley stands up, glad to have an excuse to get out of the crowded room for a bit. "Kitchen sink is fine." 

Next they ask questions. Questions! Crowley was exiled from Heaven forever for asking questions, and these people are just going around encouraging their kids to do it. They’ve made it a ritual! It’s deeply unfair.

When they get to the Four Children, Crowley is so upset by the injustice that he speaks up.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with the wicked child. Pretty terrible thing to do, calling your child wicked just for phrasing a question wrong. And saying he wouldn’t be freed.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale whispers.

“No, no, that’s a good point!” says Naomi. “What does everyone else think?” This leads to a half-hour digression, with a blue-haired law student and both of the older couple loudly siding with Crowley, to his great satisfaction.

A little later.

“Zira, would you be willing to read the next bit?” Naomi asks.

 _Zira_? Crowley’s never known Aziraphale to encourage nicknames. Except maybe when Crowley calls him ‘angel.’ 

Aziraphale smiles. “Of course. Where are we again?”

“Right there on page 18. You can skip the Hebrew and just read the English translation.”

“Oh, no need.” Aziraphale rattles off the section in perfect ancient Hebrew. Everyone stares.

“Impressive!” says Naomi. "Though I guess it isn’t surprising that a biblical scholar would have such language skills.”

Aziraphale’s smile is perhaps just the tiniest bit smug. “I’ve certainly found it useful in my line of work.”

“And Crowley? Will you read the next part?”

Crowley’s Hebrew is just as good as Aziraphale. Probably a bit better—he’s always been better with languages. And he can’t resist showing off. Once again, everyone stares.

“Are you a scholar too, then?” asks one of the guests. Crowley’s smile is more than a bit smug. “Hah, not even a little bit. I just have a _very_ good memory.”

When they get to the plagues, Crowley looks at Aziraphale, who avoids his eyes. They were there. They remembered. Again, Crowley speaks up.

“What I wonder—what I’ve always wondered—is how anyone thought this was a good idea. Well?” he demands of Aziraphale. “You know how painful boils are. And all the starvation! I know how you feel about Famine! I’ll admit the frogs were actually kind of funny, but the rest of it—blood? darkness? These are things you’d expect from my—from Hell. Not from the quote-unquote ‘good side.’”

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. “I’ve told you Crowley, it was part of the ineffable plan. You can’t question ineffability.”

“Nonsense!” snaps the blue-haired law student. “Of course you can!”

“But, but,” Aziraphale sputters. “It’s ineffable.”

Blue hair shakes her head. “So what? You can’t just give people incomplete information and then expect them to follow your plans! Why even bother giving anyone free will, if that were the case.”

“Exactly!” says Crowley.

“And for the record,” continues Blue hair, “I agree with Mr. Sunglasses over here. Killing babies is _not_ an acceptable action for an almighty god.”

The other student glares at her. “Oh, so it would have been better to leave us in slavery? They were killing all of our children, it was hardly a disproportionate response.”

The man at the end of the table speaks up. “That sounds like a strawman to me.”

Soon the humans are all shouting at each other and Crowley is smiling with the satisfaction of a job well done. Aziraphale gives me a reproachful look, and turns to Yael.

“I’m dreadfully sorry for this.” But she’s smiling with delight.

“What? No, this is fantastic--such lively discussion! Anyway, everyone will calm down soon enough—we still have a fair amount to get through before we can eat.”

Now it’s Aziraphale’s turn to smile. “Do you hear that Crowley? You’re doing the right thing.” Crowley glares at him.

“Don’t say that so loud.”

Crowley feels that singing and clapping along to dayenu is beneath his dignity, but Aziraphale is having so much fun with it that he reluctantly joins in.

 _Don’t take this for actual gratitude, you bastard_ , he thinks up at God.

This time, it’s the student with red glasses who speaks up first. “I’m not sure that’s actually true,” they say. “I mean, if he had lead us out of Egypt but not parted the Red Sea, we’d have all been slaughtered. And if he’d drowned our enemies but not sustained us in the desert, we’d have all died of starvation and exposure. That really would not have been enough.”

“I think the idea is that it would have been reasonable for us to figure it out for ourselves,” says Blue Hair. “Self-sufficiency and all that. And honestly, drowning the armies was a bit of overkill.”

“Oh not _this_ again.”

“Hey, even Adonai doesn’t seem thrilled about it. He chews out the angels for rejoicing over the drowning.”

While the argument restarts, Crowley turns to Aziraphale. “ _You_ weren’t rejoicing, I remember that,” he murmurs. Aziraphale looks sad.

“No, I never thought that much death was something to celebrate. But when have Gabriel and the rest ever listened to me?”

Aziraphale only pours a little wine for his second cup, and sips it delicately. Crowley once again fills his glass to the brim. He’s actually far less miserable than he expected to be, but it’s very good wine, and unlike Aziraphale, he sees no reason to be on good behavior.

The bitter herbs turn out to be a plate of horseradish. When they pass it around, Aziraphale takes only a tiny nibble. Crowley, feeling contrary, pops an entire chunk in his mouth and bites down.

“Wow!” exclaims one of the human children. “Do it again!”

So of course he does it again.

“How are your entire sinuses not on fire?” Glasses asks him. He shrugs.

“I’m used to bitterness,” he says, feeling very cool. Actually, his sinuses are on fire—less from the horseradish, and more from the blessing said over it. But he’s a demon. He’s used to fire. Except when it threatens to take Aziraphale away. Not that he’s dwelling on it. 

Over dinner, the humans are cheerfully arguing without any help from Crowley. He finishes off another bottle of wine, and goes into the kitchen to retrieve more. The human children are huddled in one corner, whispering to each other.

“Ooh, are you plotting something? Can I help?”

The kids look suspicious for a moment, but Crowley is very good at temptation. Or (more likely) the kids take pity on him.

The oldest one answers. “We’re trying to get the afikoman.”

“The what?”

“The afikoman. You know, the piece of matzah that they need to end the dinner. We can hold it for ransom. It’s traditional.”

The smallest one adds, “We know where it is. Yael always hides it in the same space. But we’re trying to figure out a good distraction. I thought we could knock the candles over, but Chana says that could burn the place down.”

“No!” Crowley snaps. “No fire. Look, I’ll provide a distraction for you. Just…tap your spoon against your glass when you’re ready, okay?”

“What kind of distraction?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

About ten minutes later, the oldest child taps her glass with her spoon and looks over at Crowley. A rush of wind runs through the apartment, extinguishing the candles, and then the lights flicker and die.

“It’s the ninth plague,” he jokes, and all the adults laugh.

“Crowley, _what_ are you doing?” Aziraphale murmurs as he lifts up a hand. Crowley grabs his wrist. “Don’t you dare, angel,” he whispers. His eyes can see perfectly well in the dark, so he’s able to watch the children scramble under the table, snatch a napkin-wrapped piece of matzoh, and scurry back to their places. Only then does he let go of Aziraphale’s arm. A few minutes later, Naomi trips the circuit breaker and the lights come back.

“It’s _tradition_ , angel. Or so the human children assure me. I’m just helping out.”

Aziraphale gives him a fond smile. “You’ve always had a soft spot for children, haven’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

After the third cup of wine—Crowley’s seventh—the adults send the youngest child to go open the door for Elijah.

“Wait, he’s invited too?” exclaims Crowley.

“He’s invited every year,” the middle child explains.

“What, and he never shows up? I always knew he was a flaky bastard.” Aziraphale elbows him in the side, but fortunately the humans all think it’s a joke.

A fourth cup of wine, a shout of “Next year, in Jerusalem!” and the seder is over. The children have long since dozed off, but the adults continue talking for some time. By the time everything has concluded and the guests are starting to go home, it’s well past midnight.

Yael shakes her head. “Every year, we swear we’re going to wrap up early, and every year we end later.”

Naomi stops stacking dishes in the sink and turns to them. “Are you going to be okay getting back this late? Where are you staying?”

Aziraphale fidgets. “Oh, uh, well, to be quite honest, I never did quite get around to making arrangements.”

Crowley groans. “Of course you didn’t. Just come to a strange city and not worry about it. Some of us like to sleep, you know.”

The two women exchange glances, and Naomi gives her wife a significant nod.

“Well,” says Yael, “We do have a spare room. If you felt comfortable staying with strangers.”

Aziraphale beams. “You’re hardly strangers, my dear. That would be very kind of you.”

Yael smiles back. “Great! The fold-out couch is very comfortable. And I know we have an air mattress somewhere, if you’re not okay sharing a bed.”

“I’m sure we can make do, right Crowley?” He nudges the demon, who is gently swaying from side to side.

“Huh? Oh! Oh, yeah, bed’s great.” Crowley supposes that he could sober up, but if they’re not going anywhere tonight, why bother? He tosses a friendly arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Let’s go to bed, angel.”

“Oh good!” says Yael. “We thought you two were a couple, but we didn’t want to assume.”

Aziraphale turns pink. “Oh no, we’re just colleagues.”

Both women stare at them, the faintly blushing angel and the demon practically hanging around his neck. “Colleagues.” says Naomi.

“Colleagues and _very_ old friends” says Aziraphale firmly. “We’re not, um, together. Like that.”

“But we coooould be, angel” says Crowley. “Everyone already thinks we are.” He wraps both arms around Aziraphale. “I’m very drunk!” he announces brightly. He’s not _that_ drunk, but it’s a good excuse to get close to Aziraphale while maintaining plausible deniability.

“Uh, yes, we can tell.” Yael gives Aziraphale a worried look. “Are you going to be okay sharing a room? If this is making you uncomfortable, we can figure something else out. I’m sure I can find that air mattress somewhere.”

“No, no,” Aziraphale reassures her. “We’ve known each other for a very long time. He wouldn’t do anything to make me too uncomfortable. Anyway, he’ll sober up or fall asleep very quickly.”

“If you’re sure…” she trails off. “Well, I’ll go get you some sheets and unfold the sofa-bed for you.” She walks out of the room, but Crowley can hear her talking to herself. “Colleagues. Sure. Well, whatever you say.”

While Aziraphale fusses around making the bed, Crowley sits by the open window and listens to the conversation on the sidewalk below. It’s Blue-hair and Red Glasses, waiting for a ride.

“Do you think they’re boyfriends?” asks Blue-hair.

“ _Ob_ viously. But if they want to stay closeted, it’s their prerogative.”

“Yeah, sure. But Sunglasses Guy, what’s his deal?”

“ _I_ think he’s from an ultra-orthodox family and got kicked out, probably for being gay. It would explain the black, and the Hebrew. And the bitterness.”

“Hey!" Blue-hair sounds cheerfully outraged. "I’m offended on behalf of gay ex-orthodox kids everywhere. We're not all bitter.”

“Mirka, your parents and siblings love you. Your stepmom sends you food and letters like twice a month. Not all of us are so lucky.”

“Shit, Lori, I’m sorry. I forgot. Wait! But you’re not orthodox.”

“No, just bitter that my family sucks. And super-jealous of his Hebrew. I barely managed a B on the last quiz.”

“We can study together next time. Oh hey, is that our rideshare?”

Crowley waves a lazy hand as the two students get in the car. Aziraphale looks up and frowns.

“Crowley, did you just use demonic power?”

“Juss’ a bit. Driver’s gonna get there ver’ fast. An’ safe. An’ is gonna be free.”

“Well. I know you don’t like to be called nice, but…”

“Ssnot nice. S’sodilairty. Sotidarily. Soda—bitterness.”

“Whatever you say, my dear. The bed’s all yours. I can sit up in the chair and read.”

“Nah, angel, you don hafta do that. Ss’a big bed. You can read in it.”

Aziraphale hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, ‘course. Warmer that way. Cold-blooded, you know.”

Aziraphale smiles. “It does look much comfier than that little plastic chair.”

He settles on the bed, sitting decorously on top of the blankets, while Crowley takes off his glasses and burrows under the covers. A little reading light hovers over the book, illuminating the pages and the angel’s face, and nothing much else.

“Hey angel, what’d you think of that one song?”

“Which one?”

“You know, the one with the goat, and the stick, and the fire an all that. An’ Death getting killed. Even Adam didn’t kill Death.” He stops, and says in a different tone of voice. “It’s been eight months, but it feels like last week. We were almost destroyed for good.”

Aziraphale reaches out his hand, and Crowley grabs it tight, just like he did on that other day. Remembering.

“We’re still here, Crowley.” The angel might say something else, but if he does, Crowley doesn’t hear him. He’s asleep.

When Crowley wakes up, he’s alone in the bed. He hears Aziraphale and Naomi in the kitchen.

“I can’t believe you did all the clean-up! You really didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense, dear lady, it was my pleasure. The least I could do to thank you for hosting us.”

“I’m really impressed that you put everything exactly where it goes. How on earth did you guess correctly every time?”

“Oh, just lucky intuition, I suppose.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Aziraphale always has to overdo it. He tries to ignore the surge of warmth that comes with thinking about the angel. He knows what the feelings are, but it’s not the right time to deal with it. Six thousand years, and it’s never been the right time. But that regret doesn't sting much anymore. Not now that he knows how much worse things could be. 

Naomi and Yael box up some leftovers for them, “so you won’t get hungry on the flight.”

Naomi hands Aziraphale a wrapped package, gives him a hug, and murmurs something to him that makes the angel’s eyes go wide. He looks at Crowley, looks back at Naomi, and shakes his head. She laughs and comes over to Crowley.

“Hug?”

“How about a handshake?” To Crowley’s immense relief, she nods and holds out a hand.

“Both of you come back and visit any time!”

Aziraphale smiles at them. “We shall see what can be done. And you ever have a chance to come to London, please do let me know.”

As they head to the airport, Aziraphale cradles his new book. “Do you think the flights will be all sorted out by now?” he asks hopefully. Crowley smirks.

“Oh, I very much doubt it. And if they are, I’m sure I can find something new to do.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale unwraps one arm from around the book and grabs his hand. “I am not letting you out of my sight until we’re safely back home!”

The demon’s smirk grows into an actual smile. The angel he's been hopelessly in love with for six thousand years is here, with him, and safe. This is enough. Dayenu. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I don't know, I wanted to contribute to the small but fantastic collection of Jewish GO content and I couldn't shake the image of Crowley at a seder.
> 
> Apparently I am doing more follow-up stories, because I had more ideas. 
> 
> Oh, also, Mirka is named after Mirka from Barry Deutsch's Hereville graphic novels, because I like them.


	2. Milk and Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here are the requested explanatory notes.](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/264682246)

Aziraphale beams. “Crowley! I was just about to call you.”

This is a surprising thing to hear, given that Crowley has been dropping by the bookstore almost every day since Armageddon failed to happen. The omnipresent terror of losing Aziraphale has subsided somewhat, but Crowley still can’t relax unless he’s checked on the angel recently.

“What’s so important that you needed to call?”

“I have a favor to ask, actually.”

“Angel, you do realize that we don’t need to keep covering for each other anymore, yes?”

“No, not a miracle. This is more of a personal favor. Do you remember Dr. Lipsky, from New York?”

“It’s been what, seven weeks?” Crowley asks with just a touch of asperity.

“Yes, well, she’s flying to London for a conference, and I’ve invited her to stay here.”

“I still don’t see where I come in.”

“Well, I thought, since London can be so busy and confusing, that it would be nice to meet her at the airport, and perhaps drive her back here.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you seriously asking to ride in the Bentley?”

“If you don’t mind,” says Aziraphale.

“Didn’t I tell you I’d drive anywhere you wanted to go?”

Aziraphale turns faintly pink and looks away for a moment. “That was half a century ago, and very…particular circumstances.”

“The offer’s still good. Anytime. Anywhere you want, even Heathrow. But no complaining about my driving.”

The pink fades from the angel’s cheeks and he takes a deep breath. “I will do my best.”

Aziraphale’s best turns out to involve flinching at every tire screech and horn blast, but he does manage not to complain. He’s quite pale by the time they reach the airport, but as they walk from the car park to the meeting point, he recovers some of his cheer.

Naomi is at the meeting point with her luggage, and accompanied by a young woman with fluffy brown hair and a nervous expression.

“Zira! It’s wonderful to see you again!” She gives him a hug. “And your… _colleague_ as well.” Crowley attempts to glare at her, before remembering that it won’t be visible though his glasses. “Let me introduce you both to Chana, my friend and former student. Chana, this is Dr. Fell, the scholar I told you about, and this is his associate, Mr. Anthony Crowley.”

“Anthony _J._ Crowley. But just Crowley is fine.”

“Anyway, Chana is in England to visit a friend of hers, and since her hostel is in Soho, I was hoping she could ride along with us.”

Aziraphale nods. “I don’t see any problem with that. Crowley?” Crowley shrugs. “Do be warned though, Crowley does tend to drive rather…quickly.”

“Oh good,” says Naomi. “We’ll get there faster then.”

Crowley grins. “Oh yes.”

Aziraphale graciously offers Naomi the front passenger seat, and sits in the back with Chana. As Crowley speeds through London with his usual disregard for the laws of traffic and physics, he occasionally looks over—“Eyes on the road, Crowley!”—at his passengers. Chana is holding on to her seat with white knuckles. Every time the Bentley slows for a moment, she starts to open her eyes, then immediately shuts them again. Aziraphale tries and fails to be reassuring—“Crowley always drives like this, and yet he’s had very few accidents, and no fatalities!”—but the angel’s own gasps and winces probably aren’t helping his case. Naomi seems completely unconcerned and makes cheerful small talk about the weather and the flight. Crowley is grudgingly impressed.

After the Bentley comes to a screeching halt across from the bookstore, Naomi cheerfully hops out. “That _was_ fast! You drive just like my father!”

Chana is still in the back seat, gripping the seat in front of her. With much coaxing, Naomi and Aziraphale persuade her to open her eyes, release her deathgrip, and shakily exit the car.

“Are we here? Please say we’re here.”

“Oh yes, my shop is just across the street. Would you like to join us for a cup of tea?”

Color is slowly returning to her face as she shakes her head. “No thank you. I should get to my hostel and get some rest—my bus to Tadfield leaves early in the morning.”

Crowley and Aziraphale stare at her. “Your friend lives in Tadfield?” Aziraphale asks.

“That’s what she told me. Have you been there?”

“Several times, actually. Lovely place. If you’d rather not wake up early, perhaps Crowley could drive you there tomorrow.”

Crowley glares at the angel, but before he can point out the many reasons not to draw further attention to themselves by visiting the Antichrist’s hometown, Chana looks back at the Bentley and loses what color she’d managed to regain. “Um, no, that’s very kind, but I think the bus will do just fine. More my speed, you know?”

“ _He_ understands,” says Crowley, flicking a glance at Aziraphale. For some reason, the angel blushes and looks down.

“I think,” he says softly, “that I am starting to get used to your pace, Crowley.”

The faint twinge of hope is more painful than gladdening, and Crowley ruthlessly suppresses it.

Once Chana has collected her backpack and left, they head across the street.

“Welcome to my shop!” says Aziraphale proudly. Naomi peers through the dim light at the stained furniture, piles of dust, and books shelved in what might be an extremely esoteric organization system, but is probably just random.

“How wonderful! I love old bookstores like this. And they’re such a dying breed these days.”

She wanders the aisles, exclaiming over certain finds, while Aziraphale follows behind. Crowley sprawls across a chair and watches them. The angel is so pleased by his guest’s admiration that he is actually giving off a faint glow, which is probably how Naomi is able to read the spines. Fortunately she doesn’t turn around and notice the source of her reading light. As the tour wraps up, his glow dies down a bit.

“Let’s take your luggage to the upstairs bedroom, and then we can have a cup of tea.”

The bedroom above the shop is tastefully decorated, perfectly clean, and lacks any sign of use.

“I do hope you’ll be comfortable staying here,” says Aziraphale.

“I don’t see why not, it looks lovely,” replies Naomi. “So the other bedroom is downstairs?”

“Oh no, this is the only one.”

There’s a long silence, until Crowley starts to snicker. Aziraphale’s face rapidly cycles from confused to shocked. “Oh no, don’t worry, I didn’t mean, I mean, I often spend the nights on the ground floor of the shop, I was planning on, er, sleeping on the downstairs couch.”

“I can’t kick you out of your own room—I should take the couch!” Naomi seems genuinely appalled.

“The couch is not fit for a guest!”

“Hey!” says Crowley. “I sleep on that couch all the time!”

“Yes, but you’re not a guest, you’re…oh! That’s the solution!” They both look at the angel, his face alight with happy inspiration. “I can stay at Crowley’s!”

“Wait, what?” Crowley has been trying to get Aziraphale to stay over, it’s true, but this is not exactly how he’d envisioned it.

“Didn’t you say I could stay with you?”

“I can’t kick you out of your entire apartment!” interjects Naomi.

“Nonsense, I’d enjoy the chance to spend an evening with Crowley. If it is okay with you,” he adds, looking at Crowley with that hint of pleading that the demon can ever resist. 

“Yeah, sure. You’re always welcome to stay at my place. Long as you need to.”

“That’s all settled then.”

“Hmm…” Naomi looks at the two of them with one eyebrow raised. “Well, if you two want to spend the night together, I’m certainly not going to stand in your way.”

Aziraphale nods in cheerful incomprehension. Crowley stifles a sigh.

“So,” Naomi asks over tea, “fancy experiencing another Jewish holiday?”

“Is it Purim already?” asks Aziraphale.

“Um…No, Purim was about a month _before_ Pesach. It’s Shavuot, and a friend has invited me to his party.”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” Aziraphale nods. Crowley can’t tell whether he actually remembers what Shavuot is, but it doesn’t seem to matter to Naomi.

“You’ll enjoy it—the party, I mean. He calls it the 'Milk and Honey party'—it’s a bring-your-own dairy and dessert potluck. There’s always a dozen kinds of cheese, plus blintzes, cheesecake, ice cream…” she trails off. Aziraphale has a dreamy expression on his face.

“Dairy party?” asks Crowley.

“We eat milk and cheese on Shavuot. Instead of meat, like we do on other holidays.”

Aziraphale snaps out of his trance. “I’d be delighted to accompany you! And I know just the place to pick up some nice cheeses on the way.”

Naomi smiles. “Great! What about you, Crowley?”

He’d enjoyed the seder more than he’d expected to. And watching Aziraphale get excited about food was one of the small joys that had brightened his existence over the last six millennia.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll go for a bit.”

The party is already well underway when they arrive. Aziraphale wastes no time acquiring six different kinds of cheese, two kinds of cheesecake, and some blintzes. He also snags two full wineglasses, handing one to Crowley. Mission accomplished, the angel spots Naomi and heads off in her direction, somehow managing not to drop his two plates or spill even a drop of wine. It’s a remarkably subtle use of his miracle powers.

Naomi is sipping from a glass that looks and smells like lemonade. Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“Not drinking?”

Naomi smiles. “Not since last month. Or for the next eight.” She pats her stomach. Crowley and Aziraphale trade confused glances.

“Is this a religious thing?” asks Crowley. Naomi gives them a strange look.

“What? No, of course not." When they continue to stare at her in incomprehension, she adds, "I’m pregnant.”

“Ohhh, of course!” exclaims Aziraphale. “Congratulations!”

Naomi continues to look puzzled. When she turns to greet someone else, Aziraphale whispers to Crowley, “How could I forget that humans gestate for nine months!” .

“Don’t ask me,” Crowley mutters. “My only contact with human infants was at the end of the process, and that was more than enough. Anyway, only two of the three were fully human.”

“I do hope young Adam and his friends are doing well.”

“That reminds me, angel—why did you volunteer to send me out to Tadfield? I thought we’d agreed to let Adam grow up without any more interference.”

Before Aziraphale can reply, Naomi returns and drags him away, promising to introduce him to some other book collectors. Crowley, deciding not to follow them into the thick of the crowd, instead wanders the edges. He idly scans the room for wicked thoughts—he can’t read minds, but sometimes he can pick up stray wishes like “I wish I had a real gun instead of this paintball shit.” Unfortunately for his boredom (though not for everyone else), everyone seems mostly happy. If there are any selfish or malevolent desires, they’re small and petty enough that they don’t register.

Crowley considers other possible pranks—he could spike the punch maybe, or wave around a stack of cash and ask “does this belong to anyone?” or set off every car alarm in the neighborhood—but Aziraphale seems to be enjoying himself, and he can’t bring himself to spoil the angel’s good mood this early in the evening. So instead, he sprawls across a folding chair at the edge of the room and just watches Aziraphale. Crowley doesn’t think of the angel as being particularly social, but he’s beaming as he chats with the humans. Maybe this was what he was like at the gentlemen’s club he’d joined however many centuries ago.

There’s something warm and gentle about the angel’s joy, like summer sunlight shining through the trees. Crowley wishes he could just curl up in that warmth and nap, safe in the knowledge that Aziraphale was happy.

“Everything okay?” comes a voice to Crowley’s left, and he turns and sees Naomi.

“Oh yes,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “Just not much for crowds.”

“Me neither,” she says with a sympathetic smile. “Though at least it’s a nice space. I don’t believe in Hell, but if I did, I imagine it would bedim and noisy and crowded. And probably dirty.”

“That’s actually rather close to...er, what I imagine as well.”

As they sit in companionable silence, Crowley continues to watch Aziraphale. The angel appears to be explaining something that requires a lot of gestures to a group of very inebriated-looking people.

“So how long have you known Zira?”

“Why do you call him Zira, anyway?”

“Isn’t that his name? I felt odd calling him ‘Dr. Fell’ so I asked if I should call him A.Z. or something else, and he said ‘Zira’ was fine. Do you call him by his first name? Wait, no, is his first name Angel?”

“What?” He’s only had the one glass of wine, so clearly it’s her fault that she isn’t making sense.

“He’s A. Z. Fell, right? And I remember you calling him ‘Angel,’ which I thought was because you were a couple, but then you said you weren’t.”

“…Angel Zira Fell?” He laughs.

“That’s a no, then?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Yes, it’s a no.”

“So what does the A stand for? If it’s not a secret.”

“It’s just an A, really.” He’s never been good at inventing names on the spot. He still doesn’t know what the J stands for.

“A. Zira Fell? Yeah, I can see that. But anyway, you never answered my question about how long you’ve known each other.”

“A very, very long time. Decades.”

“Wow, that long. And, I remember Zira said you were ‘colleagues’?”

“Close enough.”

“But you don’t work in bookselling, right?”

“ _Finally_ , someone can tell by looking at me.”

“So, how are you colleagues?”

“Oh, well. You know. We work—worked— for rival firms. Not bookselling. Our other business, um” he searches his brain for something vague and plausible “import-export?”

Naomi gives him another one of her strange looks, puzzled and slightly amused. “How very mysterious.” She grins. “I would suspect you two of being rival spies from opposing powers, except I can’t imagine any intelligence agency letting you out with such a bad cover story. But it’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it. Just promise me it isn’t organized crime.”

“It is definitely not,” says Crowley with perfect honesty. Nothing he does is organized.

“So, um, I hope you’re not offended by this, but I really thought you two were a couple.”

Crowley is not offended, but he’s spent six millennia trying not to let his feelings ruin everything, and he’s not about to reveal his innermost heart—the heart he shouldn’t even have!—to some human. He maintains a dignified, chilly silence. At least, he hopes that’s how it comes off.

“Sorry, I’m prying again. And I promised Yael I wouldn’t interfere.”

“Oh no,” says Crowley, not really listening to her. Aziraphale’s gestures have taken on a familiar flourish. “Oh no, he’s not going to…oh, there he goes.” With a particularly dramatic wave, the angel reaches out and pulls a coin from somewhere in the vicinity of an ear. The people around him, obviously well past tipsy, laugh and clap and shout for him to do it again. Naomi chuckles. Crowley groans.

“He’s so amazing, so clever and talented, and then he has to go and utterly embarrass himself, when he can do real—“ he catches himself in time.

“I don’t know, it looks like he’s found an appreciative audience.” Aziraphale make a small bunch of slightly crushed flowers appear from what is obviously his sleeve, to much drunken applause.

“Only because they’re _very_ drunk. He can’t even fool children! The last time he performed was at a children’s birthday party, and the eleven year-olds made fun of him. They threw cake.”

“He was hired for a party?!” Naomi says with a delighted gasp. 

“Oh yes.” He sighs. “I had to draw the mustache on for him.”

This last bit of intelligence is too much for Naomi, who breaks out into laughter.

Annoyed at Aziraphale and at himself, Crowley finds that whatever willpower has allowed him to avoid pranks has run out. As Aziraphale pulls what is hopefully a living dove out of his pocket, the demon focuses for a moment. The dove, whether living or dead, becomes a swan, very much alive and quite annoyed. It hisses and buffets Aziraphale with its wings until he drops it. Everyone around him shrieks and several people drop their drinks. Before it can do any serious damage, the angel waves a hand. The bird disappears, all the broken glasses are mended, and the entire room breaks out in applause.

Aziraphale scans the room until he spots Crowley, and looks at him with such exasperation that the demon grins in delight. Aziraphale smiles back, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Crowley feels his inconvenient corporeal heart stop for a moment.

“Hmmm..” says Naomi. “Have you _considered_ being a couple?”

 _Only for six thousand of your puny mortal years,_ _human_. _Only since the first of your kind walked outside the garden with a flaming sword, since the first rain fell on an outstretched wing, since I saw him smile._

Crowley has spent almost the entire existence of her species wanting the impossible.

“I try not to” slips out. Then, with a touch of actual anger, “you weren’t going to pry.”

“I’m sorry.” Naomi’s voice is quiet. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

The party is still in full force, but Crowley is past ready to leave, and Naomi appears to be falling asleep in her chair. Crowley points this out to Aziraphale, who is properly apologetic, and they finally leave the party. Crowley is entirely sober by now, but Aziraphale has drunk enough that he doesn’t even mind Crowley’s driving.

After they drop Naomi off at the bookstore, they go to Crowley’s flat. It’s not the first time he’s shown it to Aziraphale, but it is only the second, and the first time they were rather preoccupied with their imminent deaths.

This time, Aziraphale floats around the place in tipsy delight, exclaiming over the art and the plants.

“They’re lovely! _You_ should have been the gardener, Crowley.”

“I was planning on it, but you called dibs.”

“Oh yes, I forgot that. It’s because I knew you’d look better in a skirt. And you did! Do. But still, such wonderful plants. It’s like a little garden!”

He’s glowing again. Or maybe it just seems that way to Crowley--the angel is so close, and so happy, and Crowley’s stomach can’t decide if he’s feeling happy or angry or nervous.

“Stop. I keep a strict regimen around here, and you’re going to ruin their discipline.”

“Crowley.” The angel is smiling, full of fondness and exasperation, and he’s in Crowley’s apartment and this is more difficult than he imagined it being.

What _had_ he imagined it being? Aziraphale stepping into the flat, declaring his love, and throwing himself into Crowley’s arms? Okay, yes, maybe he had imagined it that way from time to time, but what he’d most wanted, when he made the offer, was just to have Aziraphale here, where Crowley could know he was safe.

Aziraphale wanders back into the living room and plops himself down on a chair that had been sleekly modernist not thirty seconds ago. Now it's overstuffed and yes, of course, tartan.

“ _Angel._ ”

“Yes?” Aziraphale looks down. “Oh. Sorry. I’ll fix it.”

“Don’t bother, I can do it tomorrow.” Crowley stretches out along the couch, which remains minimalist and tasteful.

“Thank you again for inviting me. I _am_ sorry for imposing.”

“Nah, it’s fine. Welcome anytime.”

Aziraphale breathes a contented sigh. “It’s so nice not having to pretend I don’t like you.” Such a mild expression of affection, and yet it fills Crowley with desperate warmth.

“I suppose it must be. I never bothered, you know. Not when it was just us, anyway.”

“I know, my dear. You’ve always been smarter than I about such things.” The angel reaches out and touches his arm. Crowley freezes, all his attention on that point of contact. When the hand withdraws, he wants to reach out and grab it, but restrains himself.

“What kind of things?”

“Oh, you know…many things. Like us—like the Arrangement. That was your idea. Or human genders! I still can’t figure them out, but you can slide between them as easily as changing your coat. Even though there are so many of them, and they keep changing over time and across cultures. Did my side come up with genders, or did yours?”

Crowley shrugs. “I think God made the first two, and humans just sort of ran with it after that. They’re clever that way.”

“Indeed, aren’t they marvelously inventive? I have grown quite fond of them, I’ll admit. And of you, of course.”

“Of course?”

Aziraphale starts to lean toward Crowley, then draws back.

“Ah, well, er, I should probably let you sleep. I know how much you enjoy it.”

Sleep would be nice right now. “Will you be all right? Do you need a blanket or anything?”

“No, I have a book and this chair—I _am_ sorry about that—so I should be fine for the evening.”

“Okay. But no spoiling the plants while I’m asleep.”

As Crowley closes his bedroom door, he hears Aziraphale stage-whisper, “He’s actually quite nice, you know. And you are all such gorgeous plants. I’m sure he’s very proud of you.”

“I heard that!”

“Good night, Crowley! Sleep well!”

A few hours later, he comes suddenly awake. His corporeal body is tense, the heart pounding. _Something is wrong_ , his body tells him. _Aziraphale!_

He stumbles out of bed, flings the door open, and sees Aziraphale reading in the armchair.

“Hello Crowley, are you already finished sleeping?I thought you preferred longer stretches.”

Crowley stares at him groggily, his mind still catching up to his body.

“You’re safe.”

“Yes, everything has been very peaceful. Did you have a bad dream? Do you dream? I’ve never been able to, even when I did try sleeping.”

“Huh. Must’ve.” He returns to his bed, but his body still doesn’t want to sleep. After an hour of futile effort, he grabs his duvet and returns to the living room.

“Can’t sleep in my bed. Going to try out here,” he mumbles.

“Will the light be a bother?”

“Nah. Keep reading.”

“Then sleep well, my dear.”

It’s a bit distracting, having the angel so close and yet not touching. (He’s not going to think about touching.) But the distraction is outweighed by the comfort and security of knowing Aziraphale is safe. He drifts off, Aziraphale’s presence a soft warmth in the room. He wakes up very briefly again, but hears the sound of turning pages, and immediately falls back asleep.

The following morning, he takes Aziraphale back to the shop.

“Did you sleep well?” the angel asks Naomi.

“Yes, it was very comfortable. How about you two?”

“Oh yes, I had a very pleasant, er, rest.”

Naomi raises her eyebrows at Crowley, who gives a minute shake of his head.

“Glad to hear that you weren’t too inconvenienced. I wouldn’t have asked to stay over if I’d realized it meant kicking you out of your house!”

“It was quite all right, truly. Spending time with Crowley is never a burden.” He smiles at the demon. Naomi’s eyebrows shoot up again, and she gives Crowley who he assumes is a Significant Glance, though absent any other context he would have guessed indigestion. 

Aziraphale, seemingly clueless, asks her, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay another night?”

“No, now that the Shavuot party is over, Eli is free to host, and I want a chance to catch up with him.”

“Your flight back is on Tuesday, yes? Perhaps Crowley and I could take you to the airport.”

“That’s very kind of you, but won’t that interfere with the bookstore?” asks Naomi.

“Not at all, I like to think that unannounced closings add to its charm.”

“He’ll take any excuse not to sell a book,” says Crowley.

Naomi asks, “Is that why it’s closed right now?”

Aziraphale just smiles.

When Crowley returns to his flat, the first thing he does is inform the plants that angels are not to be trusted, and he has no intention of growing soft. The next thing he does is go to the living room, intending to fix his chair. The soft tartan monstrosity throws off the entire decorating scheme, after all. But he can’t bring himself to erase this palpable reminder of Aziraphale. To his infinite self-annoyance, Crowley finds himself curling up in the chair. _Dammit, Angel. Why do I have to love you?_ It’s infuriating. But there doesn’t appear to be much he can do about it. Except one thing. _No matter what, I will keep you safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shavuot! Next chapter is half-written and will not take place on a holiday. It will have a storm, some bros, and a bit of Yael and Naomi's disaster lesbian backstory. 
> 
> I'm fairly committed to finishing this story even if no one else ever reads it, but comments will certainly encourage me to write faster! 
> 
> Chana also appears in my story about Anathema's dissertation defense.


	3. "Everything Has Meaning"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (No notes for this one.)

Summer in London is not exactly pleasant, but summer in New York is much worse, filled with steamy air and the scent of hot garbage. Not for the first time, Crowley is regretting his decision to once again accompany Aziraphale to this trash sauna of a city.

“Really Crowley,” says Aziraphale in response to his grumbling. “One would think that you would be more favorably inclined to a place called the ‘Big Apple.’”

“I don’t think anybody actually calls it that,” replies Crowley, but he takes the hint and stops grumbling for a little while. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to ask him why he’s tagging along on this trip. Not that the angel seems inclined to—when Crowley had followed him into the airport, Aziraphale had simply smiled and said “Oh good, I was hoping you might want to come.”

It occurs to Crowley that he doesn’t actually know _why_ they’re in New York. He hadn’t bothered to ask.

“So…are we staying with your human friends again?”

“Yael and Naomi are your friends too, Crowley, or at least they think they are.”

Crowley shrugs. “Demons don’t have friends.”

“I hope you don’t mean that. If you do, I’ll be rather hurt.” He looks a little hurt, too.

“Oh, I didn’t mean _you_ , you know that. Of course we’re friends. More than that, even.”

Aziraphale smiles at him with such warmth that Crowley has to look away. The angel reaches out and takes his arm.

“Indeed we are, dear boy. But, to answer your question, we’re staying with Yael and Naomi tonight, then all of us are heading north.”

Crowley is still distracted by the angel’s gentle grasp of his arm. “Hmm?” It takes a moment for the words to penetrate.

“Wait, north? Why?”

“There’s a symposium being held at a university there. Naomi talked me into submitting a paper, and I’ve been invited to participate in a panel. It’s very exciting! I haven’t presented a scholarly paper since the late nineteenth century.”

Crowley has very little interest in scholarly papers, but he’s happy to listen to Aziraphale talk about his presentation, especially since the angel hasn’t let go of his arm.

Naomi and Yael are delighted to see them.

“We’ve got the guest room all set up, but I can’t find the air mattress. Does one of you mind sleeping on the couch? Or you can share the bed again, if you’d like.”

Naomi looks almost disappointed—though not as disappointed as Crowley feels—when Aziraphale cheerfully offers to take the couch.

“I don’t need much sleep, and with the time difference, just resting on the sofa should be fine.”

They leave early the next morning, piling into a very old car. It’s much newer than the Bentley, but somehow looks older, with its dents and scratches and patches of rust.

Naomi rummages through the glove compartment, pulls out a CD with a handwritten label, frowns. “Why is it that all my road trip mixtapes get replaced with Best of Springsteen collections when I leave them in the car?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Not Queen?” he asks.

“Nah,” says Yael. “Naomi’s from Jersey.”

Naomi rolls her eyes and looks down at her phone. “It says we can make it in four hours with no traffic. Of course, there’s never ‘no traffic. So maybe four and a half?’”

Yael looks over her shoulder at the suggested route and kisses her wife on the cheek. “I’ll bet I can do it in 3.”

Naomi shakes her head with a smile. “You just want to show off for our guests because I said Crowley drives like Dad.”

Yael grins at Crowley and Aziraphale in the back seat. “Let’s see how I compare.”

They don’t quite make it in three hours, but Yael’s only off by a quarter of an hour. Crowley is impressed. (He does stop two highway patrol cars from pursuit, but that’s as much out of mischief as anything else. Turning police car engines into tentacled abominations never gets old.)

***

As soon as they reach the university, Naomi and Aziraphale bustle off to register for their conference, leaving Yael and Crowley standing in the parking lot. Yael turns to Crowley.

“All right, time to go hiking!”

“Excuse me?” Crowley is fond of plants, but hiking conjures up a mental image of boots and wooly jumpers and other things that are just not _him._

Yael shrugs. “Zira made me promise to ‘keep Crowley out of trouble’ and I want to go walk around the wildflower preserve. So unless you feel like hanging around campus and moping, you might as well come with me.”

Crowley sighs. Demonic wiles are not much fun without Aziraphale around to try and thwart them, and he really doesn’t feel like hanging around campus and…not moping, demons don’t mope, but… brooding. That’s a good word.

“Fine.”

It’s a very short drive, and the wildflower preserve is not the nauseatingly precious botanical garden he’s imagining, but a winding trail along a stream. It’s still an annoyingly pretty day, with the sunlight filtering down through green leaves and sparkling on the surface of the water. It’s the sort of day that would make Aziraphale cheerfully note its prettiness, right before he went back inside to his dark musty bookshop. But there’s some industrial decay to set off all the nature—a big cracked iron pipe running just above the water, some crumbling brick and concrete structures, and bits of graffiti on the walls. Much of the graffiti is irritatingly wholesome, saying things like “you matter,” “everything has meaning,” and “forgive yourself,” but if Crowley ignores the writing and focuses on the vandalism, he can appreciate the scenery. Anyway, he does enjoy being surrounded by plants.

Yael is mostly silent, stopping to take pictures of things and occasionally humming a bit to herself, but to Crowley’s immense relief, she seems uninterested in conversation. They make it to the end of the trail, an old—by American standards, so probably only a few decades—dam. There are cliffs on either side, and what looks like a deep pool underneath. Crowley hopes it’s a deep pool, because there’s a pack of shirtless young men at the top of the cliff, and one of them is about to jump off into the water, which must be at least ten meters down. As Crowley and Yael thread their way down to the lake, he hears a resounding splash, followed by cheering and shouting.

“I forgot about all the bros who come here in the summer,” says Yael. “But let’s stop here for a rest anyway.”

Instead of a beach, the lakeside is a stone shelf about a third of a meter above the water. Yael produces towels to sit on, and quickly strips off her shoes and socks to dangle her feet in the water. Crowley has no interest in the water, but he is quite fond of sun-warmed rocks. He stretches out on his towel and watches the “bros,” as Yael calls them, gather the nerve to jump into the water.

As the second one leaps down, Yael says, “So…there’s really nothing going on between you and Zira? Because—“

“No. Nothing. We’re friends and colleagues. Why would you even ask?”

“I mean, I know I made Naomi promise not to interfere—”

“So don’t interfere!” Crowley turns to look at her in exasperation, missing the third bro’s descent. “I did not come out here to have a heart-to-heart! I don’t even have a heart! I am cold and unfeeling!”

Yael is silent for a moment, looking out on the lake. Crowley looks at the graffiti adorning the stone cliffs across the water. Most of it is unintelligible, but he can make out one phrase, in bright pink: “LIVE FREE.”

“Did Naomi tell you how we got together?”

“No.“ Crowley is not particularly interested in the story, but at least it’s a change of subject. He’s beginning to realize that centuries of socializing primarily with demons, Satanists, criminals, Aziraphale, and one diplomat’s child has given him very little defense against a friendly human who, horror of horrors, only wants to help.

“Her father was my primary teacher and advisor when I was in rabbinical school. Brilliant man, and also a total sweetheart. I met Naomi the first time he invited me to have dinner with his family.” She sighs. “It wasn’t quite love at first sight, but it was close. I made some offhand remark about a book I was reading, and she looked at me with her eyes all wide and said ‘But that’s _fascinating_ ’ and bam.” The fourth bro hits the water with a particularly loud splash, as if to punctuate Yael’s narrative. “I remember thinking, _Oh shit, this is it for me._ ”

“How nice for you.” Crowley is steadfastly refusing to see the point of this, despite his memory oh-so-helpfully reminding him of the exact look on Aziraphale’s face when he admitted to giving away his sword.

“Not nice at all, actually. I wasted the next six years of my life failing to do anything about it.”

“Oh?”

“First I was worried that she’d be offended, and then I was worried that it would make things awkward with my mentor—dating his daughter, or worse, breaking up with his daughter. But after my ordination, I didn’t have to worry as much about my mentor’s opinion, especially since I ended up working in refugee aid instead of at a synagogue. There were about three years when we were both single, with no real obstacles, and I still didn’t do anything about it.”

“Why not?” He’s not curious, he assures himself. He’s just being polite to Aziraphale’s friend. 

“By this point we’d become good friends, and I didn’t want to ruin it. And I was stupid and 25 and saw myself as this tragic figure, pining away. But mostly I was scared. I'd already lost my birth family, and I didn’t want to lose my best friend.”

“Clearly, you didn’t.”

There is one young man still atop the cliff, and he appears to be having some difficulty making the jump. His friends shout taunts and encouragement from the water below.

“No, though not for lack of trying. I spent almost six months driving poor Naomi crazy with my moping and refusing to tell her what was wrong. Then I couldn’t stand it anymore and gave her an entire speech about how much I loved her, and how I knew she didn’t feel the same way, and that was fine, our friendship was the most important thing, but I couldn’t keep lying to her that nothing was wrong and on and on, and she’s giving me the strangest look, just utterly baffled but also kind of amused, and eventually I wind down and give her a chance to respond. And she informs me that she’s spent the last year flirting with me and trying to ask me out, and I’d been so determinedly oblivious that she’d finally concluded that I wasn’t interested and was playing dumb so I wouldn’t have to reject her outright. A year later, we were married.”

This surprises a quick “hah!” out of Crowley, but he avoids looking in Yael’s direction, instead watching the drama unfold on the cliff. The last young man has made several false starts, but still hasn’t jumped. One of his friends is offering—or perhaps threatening—to climb up and push him off. The others are barking like dogs. It’s been six thousand years, and Crowley still doesn’t understand human bonding rituals.

“Anyway, my point is,“ says Yael, doggedly persisting in her own attempt at human bonding, “sometimes these things can be more obvious from the outside than they look from within. Just saying. You know.”

“That’s all very well and good for humans—“ he catches himself just a moment too late. Fortunately (for Crowley, anyway) Yael is probably distracted by the sight of the last bro jumping with insufficient force, knocking his head against the stone of the cliff on the way down, and hitting the water at what looks to be a very bad angle. He floats back to the surface, but he’s clearly dazed and unable to properly move his limbs. The other bros surround him in a panic.

“Oh no, that looks serious,” says Yael, and slides into the water. She snags an inner tube from a young woman, swims over to the men, and snaps something that gets the bros to calm down and help her gently float their friend towards the edge of the lake.

Crowley sighs. “Aziraphale, you’re going to owe me for this.” As they draw near, he says, “Let me lift him out, I can do it without hurting him further.”

“At that angle?” asks Yael. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!” he snaps.

Kneeling on the stone, he stretches his arms out to take the injured human. As he lifts, he works a quick miracle. Concussive swelling subsides, vertebrae realign, and dislocated joints locate again. Crowley sterilizes the long cut where a rock sliced open a shoulder, but leaves enough of the wound that the man will have an interesting scar to brag about.

“It looked worse than it was,” he reassures the young man. “You’re fine.”

“Guys, chill, I’m fine!” the bro hollers to his friends. They cheer. “Do it again!” one of them shouts, and they all start chanting, except for the one that’s barking again.

“Young man,” says Yael, having climbed back out of the lake. “Are you sure you’re okay? That looked like a really bad fall.”

“Oh yeah, that was nothing. You shoulda seen me after I fell off my balcony.”

She rolls her eyes. “At least see a doctor and get that shoulder stitched up before it gets infected.”

At the sight of his own blood-covered shoulder, the man seems to wake up a bit.

“Uhh, yeah, I’ll do that. GUYS! I’M GOING TO THE ER! LAST CHANCE TO GET A RIDE BACK WITH ME!”

“Are we done here?” asks Crowley.

“Yes, I need to go home and change into clothes that haven’t been dunked in a lake. Ugh. I wasn’t planning on actually swimming today.” The sky has grown cloudy, and the breeze is starting to pick up. Yael shivers. “Let’s hurry back.”

Crowley is torn. This human has strong-armed him into wasting an entire afternoon looking at rocks and water, tried to talk about his feelings for Aziraphale, and then offered up her own life story like there was some sort of comparison. He should leave her to shiver. But he’s not used to interacting with a human who doesn’t want anything from him, except maybe his own happiness and a receptive ear. It’s an interesting novelty. And her story was rather amusing, even though it bore absolutely no resemblance to Crowley’s own experience. None whatsoever.

The cool breeze turns warm (and slightly sulfurous). Drying her clothes all the way would be too obvious, but a little bit of warm air shouldn’t be too noticeable.

They walk back to the parking lot as quickly as they can, but they are outraced by the oncoming rain. At first it’s just a few drops, but by the time they reach the car, the sky has gone dark, save for the occasional bolt of lightning. Even the largest trees are straining against the wind. Then the rain comes. Yael starts the car and turns the headlights on, but Crowley still can’t see past the front bumper.

“What are you waiting for? Let’s go!”

Yael turns the heater on, but makes no move towards the gas pedal. “I can’t drive in this. We’d crash.”

“Fine, I’ll drive!”

“When was the last time you drove on the right side of the road?”

“Day before yesterday, on the way to the airport.” This gets a smile from Yael, but somehow fails to convince her. “Look. Hu—Yael. We have to get back. What if something’s happened to them?”

“To Naomi and Zira? They’re on a large college campus with plenty of staff and supplies, they’ll be fine, though they’re probably worried about us.”

“What if they’re not? Storms like this aren’t natural! Something could be coming!”

She gives him a worried look. “Summer storms like this happen every week around here. Everyone will know what to do.”

He tries calling Aziraphale, remembers that Aziraphale still doesn’t have a mobile. “Call Naomi! Just to make sure.”

Yael looks at her phone and shakes her head. “No signal. But that’s not surprising around here—there’s not very many cell towers, and the nearest one probably blew down.”

“But what if something has happened to him?” His stupid human corporation isn’t working right—the knees have come unstrung and the hands are shaking and the entire endocrine system is off. Crowley feels almost like he’s floating outside it.

“I’m confident that they are safe. You’re the one I’m worried about right now.”

“I’m fine! I have been through ssso much worsse!”

“I believe you,” says Yael. She thinks for a moment, then rummages behind her seat, pulling out an old scarf. “Here, hold this.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s something you can squeeze without hurting yourself. Don’t worry about destroying it—it’s old and unraveling already.”

He takes the scarf and worries at it with his fingers. It’s soft and slightly stretchy and full of holes. “I’m not being unreasonable, you know.”

“I know.”

“There was a fire. I thought he was gone. And a big storm right after. And then…a lot of events all close together. I don’t know why I’m talking about this.”

“It’s okay. You can talk or not as you need to.”

But by now Crowley has calmed down enough that he can stop, though he still feels a disconcerting lightness. He’s used to feeling disconnected from his body—it’s just a corporeal form, after all—but right right he feels disconnected from himself. It’s almost like the shock and numbness he felt all those ages ago, when he shook off the daze and looked around and realized he’d been cast out of heaven and could never go back. He doesn’t like it at all. But he’s calmer, at least. The sky is getting lighter, and the wind has died down, and the rain is stopping. He takes a deep breath and says with commendable composure,

“ _Now_ can we go?”

Yael is already shifting out of park.

Even with his dark glasses, Crowley’s eyesight is better than a human’s, so he spots the fallen tree before Yael can get a good look at it. An angry glare reduces it to a pile of twigs and leaves and scatters them out of the road. Yael slows down for a moment and looks around. “Did you see a tree here? It looked like the road was blocked.” Crowley shrugs. “I didn’t notice anything.”

“Hmm. I guess we’re both a little distracted.”

Even with Yael driving more carefully than usual, it still takes less than twenty minutes to reach the campus parking lot. Yael’s phone lights up as she parks.

“Oh hey, we're back in range. Naomi says they’re fine, but worried about us. I’ll text to let her know we’re almost there.”

They head toward the conference building, but Naomi and Aziraphale meet them halfway. Aziraphale has a worried frown as he approaches, but as soon as he spots Crowley, his entire face lights up.

“Crowley!” At this, the demon’s knees give out entirely. Before he can collapse, Aziraphale is there with an arm around his waist. “Are you all right? I was so worried that you were caught out in the storm.”

“You’re okay.” He closes his eyes and leans against the angel, clinging to his soft warmth, breathing in his favorite smell. “You’re not gone. You’re okay.”

“I’m fine, my dear, but I’m worried about you.”

“Everyone’s worried about me. But I’m fine. It’s just that I think I broke my nervous system a little.”

“Don’t worry, it’s just adrenaline crash.” says Yael. “Let’s get him somewhere quiet.”

“Naomi, I’m afraid I must skip the last panel and the dinner tonight. Please make my apologies for me.”

She nods. “Don’t worry about it. I looked at the panel lineup, and I doubt you’re missing much.”

Crowley lifts his head of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You don’t need to skip your thing. I’m fine.”

“I am _choosing_ to skip my panel to spend time with you. Because I want to. Now come along.”

Yael drives them to the slightly rickety but very colorful Victorian house where they’ve been invited to stay. To Crowley’s relief, their hosts are not at home, but they’ve left a key and a friendly note explaining where the guest rooms and bathrooms are.

Once they’ve reached Crowley’s room, Aziraphale fluffs up the pillows and insists that the demon lie down on the bed, then goes downstairs to see whether their hosts have any cocoa. If they don’t, Crowley suspects that they will momentarily. He takes his glasses off and closes his eyes, listening to the angel bustling around in the kitchen below, then walking up the stairs, then opening the door with, yes, two mugs of something that smells like chocolate. Crowley takes the offered mug—cocoa’s not really his thing, but it’s warm, and it makes Aziraphale happy.

After setting the mugs on the nightstand, Aziraphale pulls a chair up next to the bed, sitting so close that Crowley can smell the particular combination of petrichor, old books, and fussy cologne that means Aziraphale. Crowley wants to pull the angel close and breathe that smell in, but he doubts that would go well. He grips the mug and takes a small distasteful sip of the cocoa. 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I was thinking, now that we’re, ah, free agents of a sort, getting new corporations is going to be difficult. Maybe impossible. We need to be careful of the ones we have.”

“Oh, you’re just now realizing this? Why do you think I keep telling to be more careful and stop crossing the Atlantic every few months?”

“I hardly think a trip to a conference counts as reckless endangerment. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Well, you did say that you broke your nervous system.”

“Only a little. It’s better now.” It is, mostly, though he still feels a bit shaky. He takes another sip of cocoa, decides that it’s not worth it, and returns the mug to the nightstand.

“Crowley, I just wanted to say…” Aziraphale hesitates. “I’m glad you came with me. I…very much enjoy your company.”

“If you’re trying to tell me that we’re friends, you can save your breath, angel. I’m well aware.”

“No, I…” Aziraphale leans in closer, looking into his eyes. If Crowley just leaned forward a bit, he could kiss him. It’s a very distracting thought. The angel’s hand brushes his, just the lightest touch, but enough to send shivers through him. Aziraphale jumps up. “Oh no, are you cold? Let me get you another blanket.”

“You really don’t—" Crowley’s protest comes too late, as the angel is already tucking a large crocheted afghan all around him, and then another blanket over that. “Anyway, you were saying something?”

“Oh, well.” The angel is slightly flushed. “It’s nothing important. It can wait until you’ve recovered.”

A frustrated hiss escapes him. “I’m _fine_.”

“I’m sure you are, my dear. But you need rest. Shall I leave you alone for a bit?”

 _Please don’t._ Crowley shrugs. “I don’t mind if you stay here. If you like.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I would like. I’ll sit here and read, but you really should rest.”

Underneath the pile of blankets, Crowley starts to feel warm again. 

***

The rest of the trip passes quickly. Crowley’s feeling better in the morning, and it’s easy for Yael to coax him into visiting the nearby botanical garden, especially when she points out that it’s only a ten-minute walk from the conference. Crowley takes a few surreptitious cuttings to try planting back home, and Yael pretends not to notice.

Afterwards, they find Naomi comparing notes with two other women while Aziraphale cheerfully argues with a truculentmiddle-aged man. A rescue is almost certainly not needed, but Crowley’s in a better mood today and wants to have some fun.

“And I find the provenance of your copy of the Buggre Alle This Bible to be _highly_ dubious,” says the belligerent scholar. Aziraphale starts listing all of the documentation—he still has the original bill of sale—but the man isn’t listening. He starts to talk over Aziraphale, then goes quiet and involuntarily takes a step back, probably because of what he sees approaching.

Crowley saunters up to the pair, oozing eldritch menace. His smile is just a little too wide for a human face, the teeth just a little bit too sharp. “Hi!”

To give the other man some credit, he doesn’t run screaming. He even manages to grumble “I’d have to see the documentation myself” as he makes his retreat. Crowley wipes his laptop and drains the battery for good measure. He considers knotting his shoelaces together, but Aziraphale is glaring at him.

“Crowley!” says Aziraphale with indignation. Crowley relaxes into a much more normal grin.

“What? I’m sure he makes regular backups.” Aziraphale continues to glare. “Oh, fine. He definitely made a backup, it’s waiting at his house.”

Aziraphale softens a bit, though he still looks annoyed. “That still wasn’t very nice.”

“Four-letter word, remember?”

For some reason, the angel blushes. “Shall we rejoin Naomi and Yael?”

The drive back to the city clocks in at just under three hours—Crowley is ready to go home and quietly clears away a few obstacles. They drive straight to the airport, where Naomi and Yael say goodbye and tell them to come back any time.

“We love having friends visit,” says Naomi.

Crowley opens his mouth, but is interrupted by Yael. “Yes, yes, you’re cold and heartless and don’t have any friends. But you’re welcome all the same.”

“Perhaps we could join you for your next holiday,” says Aziraphale.

Naomi looks thoughtful. “The High Holy Days start at the end of September. You probably don’t want to observe Yom Kippur with us, but you’d be welcome to come for Rosh Hashanah. We generally have a big potluck then.”

“Is there drinking at that one?” asks Crowley. Naomi grins.

“There _can_ be!” 

“I’ll check my schedule.”

Demons don’t have friends, of course. Nor hearts, nor imaginations. But Crowley never was a proper demon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments! When I read them, I wandered around the house smiling to myself for a good half-hour, than plotted out the rest of the story and finished this chapter. It is very encouraging to know that someone other than me enjoys this story.
> 
> In case anyone is wondering, the graffiti around my town really is strangely wholesome, and there really is a "LIVE FREE" painted on that cliff. 
> 
> The next few chapters will hopefully be a little shorter. But who knows--this was supposed to be a quick 1500-word story, and yet.


	4. A Taste of Sweet in the Bitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: There's a brief mention of parental violence in this chapter. No details, and it's in the past, but it is there.
> 
> Explanatory notes [here](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/264683095).

Over the course of his six-thousand year career as a force of evil, vile tempter, and general cause of mayhem, Crowley has spent relatively little time in America. Some of this is laziness—it’s so far away from London—but mostly he’s learned that the Americans do a perfectly good job of causing their own mayhem. The only really impressive achievement he’s managed over here, the one that he put any real effort into, was LaGuardia Airport. Which makes it all the more unfortunate that Aziraphale always seems to select flights arriving there.

“ _Why,_ ” asks Crowley, as they thread their way through a mass of impressively cranky people, “Do you insist on using air travel when there are perfectly good telephone signals to ride across the Atlantic?”

Aziraphale huffs in exasperation. “And get trapped in an ansaphone? No, thank you.”

They have this argument every time they come to visit Yael and Naomi, and like every time, it goes unresolved. Aziraphale points out that they can't exactly appear in their friends' kitchen out of a ringing phone, Crowley argues that there are millions of phones in New York City they could emerge from, Aziraphale reminds him that they're supposed to be keeping a low profile, and the back and forth keeps them both distracted until they're well out of the airport and almost in Park Slope. 

When they reach the brownstone, Naomi greets them at the door with a bright smile and a “Shanah tovah!” Crowley notices that she’s grown much rounder in the intervening months.

“A good year to you as well!” says Aziraphale.

“I’m so glad you could make it!” she says, ushering them in. We only have one other guest for Rosh Hashanah this year, it will be much more lively with you too. Plus I want Zira to try my apple crisp!”

She and Aziraphale discuss the evening’s menu with great excitement as Crowley follows them up the stairs.

“And guess what!” says Naomi. “We finally found the air mattress! You won’t have to sleep on the couch or cram together on the fold-out bed. Unless you want to, of course.” Naomi gives the two of them a sly glance.

“An air mattress! How delightful!” says Aziraphale. As soon as Naomi turns to retrieve the promised object, Aziraphale whispers, “Crowley, you sleep on things. Do you know what an air mattress is?”

“Sleeping on things hardly makes me an expert on human bedding, angel. I have no idea.”

The air mattress turns out to be a large flat balloon, currently deflated. Naomi hands it to Aziraphale and says “Do you mind plugging it in and inflating it yourself? Bending over is currently a bit harder than usual.”

“Oh, of course not, we don’t mind at all.”

“Great. It’s pretty self-explanatory, but if you have trouble, I’ll be in the kitchen. She smiles at them and heads off.

Aziraphale closes the door and regards the balloon with no small amount of consternation. He plugs it in, but nothing happens. After a moment he looks up at Crowley with an expression Crowley has grown to both adore and dread. Aziraphale doesn’t look pleading, exactly, just resigned to the problem, and perhaps a bit hopeful that Crowley will solve it. It annoys Crowley to no end—why doesn’t he just ask?—but it works every time. And as always, Aziraphale’s smile when he gets up to come help is worth it.

In this case, however, Crowley is as baffled as the angel. They find a switch, and the mattress starts making a loud noise, but it’s not getting any larger. They try turning the switch off and the mattress seems to get even flatter, still making that grating noise.

“This is stupid,” says Crowley. He waves a hand at the mattress, and it swells full of air, floating up to about the height of the fold-out sofa bed. Aziraphale tests the airborne mattress a bit and beams at him. “Well _done_ , Crowley. Thank you.”

Crowley shrugs, his hair falling over his eyes. Aziraphale reaches out and gently brushes it to the side, seemingly unaware of the effect this has on the demon. “Your hair is getting long.”

He’s right—Crowley’s hair is almost to his shoulders, long enough that he could start pulling it back.

“Something wrong with that?”

“Oh, not at all. It looks nice.” The angel looks to the side and turns pink. “Your hair is always nice. But I’ve always thought it looks particularly well when long.”

Crowley can feel his own face heating up. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments, angel.”

“I didn’t mean…oh, never mind.”

There’s a knock on the door and Naomi’s voice saying “Is it all right if I come in?” When she hears their assent, she opens the door, saying “Did you get everything set up the—“ she stops. “Is the air mattress _flying_?”

The mattress drops to the ground.

“Not at all!” says Aziraphale. “I was just holding it up to reposition it.”

A snort of laughter escapes her, but she doesn’t pursue the matter. “Here, I brought you sheets and stuff. And the other guest just arrived, so we’ll have dinner in maybe half an hour?” She exits the room, considerately closing the door behind her again.

“So…it wasn’t supposed to float in the air?” asks Crowley.

“I suppose not,” says Aziraphale.

“Oops.”

The other guest turns out to be the student Crowley thinks of as “Glasses,” bringing cake, cider, and a salad with spinach, carrots, and pomegranate seeds. Yael and Naomi provide a whole roast fish and a side dish of beets and sweet potatoes. Aziraphale contributes a selection of dessert wines, including a honey wine that is ostensibly a modern recipe, but smells and tastes suspiciously like a drink Crowley hasn’t had for at least 2500 years. When he murmurs this to Aziraphale, the angel simply smiles and says “Oh yes, we did share a bottle of that, didn’t we?”

“That was mostly you, if I recall.” Crowley isn’t particularly fond of sugary things. Looking at the array of drinks, he sighs.

“Why are all of these sweet?”

Yael smiles at him from across the table. “It’s symbolic. Sweet foods so that the coming year will be full of sweetness. And conversely, we avoid bitter foods right now, so as not to invite bitterness into our lives.”

“But I _like_ bitter things”

“I never would have guessed,” says Yael, perfectly deadpan.

Dessert is an informal affair, everyone taking their plates into the living room. Crowley perks up a bit when he sees a plateful of sliced apples—he does like apples—but then he notices that they’ve been drizzled with honey. More sweet. He pours himself a generous glass of white wine, glares at it until it turns dry out of sheer terror, and retreats to a corner of the couch.

After a moment, Aziraphale joins him.

“Crowley, are you sure you don’t want any dessert? This carrot cake is delectably rich, and Naomi’s apple crisp is simply delightful.”

Before Crowley can decline, Glasses sits in a nearby chair. “Do you like the cake? It’s my own recipe!”

Aziraphale assures them that it’s delicious and adds “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m not sure I caught your name at the seder.”

“I’ve just been thinking of you as ‘Glasses,’” adds Crowley.

“That’s fair, I think of you as Sunglasses. But my name’s Lori.”

“I’m Zira, and this is Crowley.”

“Where’s Blue-hair?” asks Crowley.

“You mean Mirka? She’s at her family’s place. She always spends the High Holy Days with them.” Crowley can hear the tinge of a familiar bitterness in their voice. He feels like a skater on the very edge of a frozen pond, realizing that the ice is thin and the water underneath is very cold, and he tries to think of a safer direction to take the conversation. Unfortunately, Aziraphale is completely oblivious and rushes in.

“Oh, how nice for her. Were you unable to go home for the holiday?” Crowley can almost hear the cracking sound. Lori is quiet for a moment, then says in a perfectly light and casual tone:

“Well, the last time I saw my parents they tried to kill me, so yeah, I’m not really able to go back.” They’re smiling, just a little, the ironic smile of someone who has learned that the ordinary facts of their life are enough to shock and horrify others, and still isn’t over the novelty.

Aziraphale looks appalled and deeply sad, and it’s clear that he’s about to say something that will make things even worse. So Crowley tosses out the first thing that pops into his head.

“We have something in common, then!” he says brightly. “Our families tried to kill us too!” Lori relaxes, their smile softening a bit.

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “The circumstances were somewhat different, but yes, they did. My… family is not in favor of disobedience.”

“Mine is!” says Crowley. “But only in the general sense. Not so much the specific instance of disobeying them.”

“Fuck ‘em,” says Lori with a decisive nod. “You’ve got us for family now anyway.”

“Pardon?” says Aziraphale.

“Hey Naomi!” Lori waves her over. “You should adopt these guys like you did me.”

Naomi tilts her head as she walks over. “I rather thought we already had.”

“Excuse me?” says Aziraphale worriedly. “I’m afraid I may have missed something here.”

“It’s what we do,” says Lori. “Some of our birth families were terrible, so we’ve made new ones. There’s nothing saying you have to stick with the family you start out with.” Something about that sounds oddly familiar to Crowley, but he forgets about it and starts to laugh when he sees the panic on Aziraphale’s face. 

Yael joins them, wrapping an arm around Naomi’s shoulders. “Zira, are you all right? You’re looking very anxious all of a sudden.”

Crowley waves away her worries. “These two started talking about adoption and now he’s worried that you’re going to make him sign paperwork.”

“Ahh.” Yael’s mouth quirks up, and she gives her wife a mock-annoyed look. “Sweetheart, didn’t you promise to give them some space if they needed it?”

“It was Lori’s idea!” says Naomi.

“I meant it in a nice way!” Lori protests.

“I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood!” says Aziraphale, and then all three of them are apologizing to each other while Crowley snickers and Yael looks on in resigned disbelief.

“Oy vey. Okay everyone,” says Yael. “Zira, when we talk about family and adoption, it’s nothing formal, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s just that we care about you two, and we want you to feel comfortable here. And I hope you know that if you’re ever in trouble, or need a place to stay, we’re happy to help out.”

“And my dad will probably give you socks for Chanukah,” adds Naomi.

“Last year it was hats,” says Lori.

“Yes, fine, my dad will give you something soft and warm for Chanukah, like socks or a hat or earmuffs. But you don’t have to give him anything back, he just likes giving gifts.” Naomi’s face turns serious. “But if it makes you uncomfortable, we won’t mention it again. And I can ask my dad not to get you anything.”

“No, no,” says Aziraphale. “I clearly misunderstood. That all sounds quite nice. Just, rather unexpected, is all.”

“Wow.” Lori has had a bit more to drink than is good for them. “I thought my family was bad, but your families must _really_ suck.”

“Oh yes,” says Crowley. “They really do.”

Afterwards, in the privacy of the guest room, Crowley sprawls across the bed. Aziraphale opts for the desk chair, setting a plate of honeyed apples on the desk.

“Well,” the angel says, nibbling an apple slice. “They are very kind, aren’t they? I’m glad you weren’t unduly distressed.”

Crowley waves a careless hand. “Nah, it’s not an actual commitment. Anyway, they can’t need more rescuing than you have.” He’s half-expecting the angel to be offended, but Aziraphale smiles fondly.

“You have done quite a bit of that, haven’t you?”

“Ehh, whatever, you repaid me with the holy water. Wouldn’t be here without it.”

“Regardless, I’m rather surprised at you, Crowley. Given your stance on friendship, I expected you to take exception to this adoption, no matter how informal a system it appears to be.”

“It’s just words, they don’t have to mean anything.”

“Words can be powerful, you know.”

“Yes, sure, if you own a bookstore.”

Aziraphale frowns thoughtfully. “Consecrated ground is just dirt and floorboards. It’s the words that make it burn your feet.” Crowley winces at the memory.

“That’s all tangled up in holiness and whatnot. This is just a human bonding thing. It doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale sighs. “I can’t help but feel that there’s something about this that we’re missing.”

Crowley’s memory drifts back to that summer day, when an eleven year-old boy chose his friends and family and thereby saved the world. “Yeah, maybe. But I doubt it will matter.”

“I just hope this doesn’t mean trouble with our respective sides.”

“What are they going to do, angel, try to kill us?” Aziraphale looks distressed, so Crowley adds, “Look. When the next war comes around—and hopefully it won’t for at least another six thousand years—were you really going to side against humanity? After all this?”

“Perhaps we’ll be able to prevent that one, too.”

“Could be! And if not, we can always run off to Alpha Centauri.” But even as Crowley says it, he knows it’s not true. He’d chosen his side long ago, long before Aziraphale had even realized there was a choice. Two against the universe, even if one of them didn’t always know it.

And now perhaps there are a few more on this side. What an odd thought.

Crowley sits up and nabs a piece of apple from Aziraphale’s plate, licks the honey off, pops the rest in his mouth. He’s always been fond of apples. And sometimes a brief taste of sweetness isn’t so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to read! I know the chapter count keeps expanding, but I think the final count will be nine. After this we have a Yom Kippur-adjacent chapter, Sukkot, Chanukah, Purim, and an epilogue. (Sorry, Simchat Torah fans!) Let's see if I can finish this story before the actual high holy days!
> 
> And seriously guys, thank you so much for the kind comments. They're incredibly encouraging.


	5. On Atonement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explanatory notes [here](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/264683518)!

It’s early in the morning when Crowley wakes up to the sound of Aziraphale, Yael, and Naomi talking. He puts on his glasses and emerges from the guest room, and sees them heading down the stairs. Naomi notices him first and smiles.

“Crowley! We’re heading out to the synagogue for Rosh Hashanah services. Zira’s coming, too. Would you like to join us?”

He yawns. “Wasn’t that yesterday?”

“It’s both days. Want to come?”

Crowley wonders if a synagogue counts as consecrated ground. He decides not to chance it. Anyway, he’s still sleepy. “Nah, I’ll stay here.”

“Rest well,” says Yael. “There’s coffee and tea in the cabinet next to the sink, and help yourself to anything in the fridge.”

“And if you change your mind, the synagogue is just a block over, “ adds Naomi. “Well, technically it’s a church during the rest of the week, but they loan it out to us for High Holy Days because our usual building is too small.”

That clinches it. His feet had hurt for weeks after he rescued Aziraphale in the church. There’s no way that he’s going to a church that moonlights as a synagogue on particularly holy days. Not when he could go back to bed.

“Oh, and if you want to spend some time outdoors, there’s the garden out back or the rooftop garden. The ladder is in Naomi’s study,” says Yael.

After the other three leave, Crowley considers returning to bed, but he’s curious about the rooftop garden. It’s small, but there are grasses and flowers and some bushes in clay pots. There are also a few long chairs that fold almost flat. It’s a surprisingly warm day for the first of October, and Crowley decides that this garden is an ideal place for a morning nap. He’s loved gardens ever since he infiltrated the first one. Surrounded by the smell of leaves warmed by sunshine, Crowley is quickly lulled to sleep.

He comes awake instantly to the blast of a horn, blearily convinced that the final battle has come after all, despite all their efforts. He looks frantically around for Aziraphale, then jumps as another blast startles him fully awake. He realizes that he is still on the rooftop, that the world is not ending, and that the horn blasts, while reminiscent of those played during the last great war, are actually coming from a human instrument, albeit an impressively loud one. Demonic hearing is as much a curse as a gift sometimes.

Giving up on further sleep, he returns indoors and convinces the coffee machine to make him a double espresso (an impressive feat for a drip machine). Crowley isn’t sure what to do in an empty house—any serious pranks would make Aziraphale angry and probably get him disinvited from the house. After some aimless wandering, he makes the happy discovery that not all of the books are scholarly monographs or Talmudic commentaries. There are several shelves of novels. He picks one at random and starts to read.

The book turns out to be about a were-bear working for a fashion magazine, trying to choose between a hot werewolf she knew in high school and the human woman she’s been pining for forever. “Obviously you should go for the human,” Crowley informs the book. “She’s smart and sweet and kind to you and you’ve been in love with her for years.” But of course the book has to draw out the romance through a series of ridiculous mishaps. Crowley loves stories like this, full of humans (and were-bears) making their own lives infinitely harder. He loves humans—their capacity for creative mayhem, their ability to dig themselves ever-deeper into holes of their own making, their shocking cruelties and sudden kindnesses. And their ridiculous stories.

He finishes the book just as the other three return, quickly reshelves it, and welcomes them back with a wide grin that draws answering smiles from the others. Aziraphale in particular seems delighted, and for a moment they just stand there smiling at each other, until Yael gently moves Aziraphale aside so that she and Naomi can enter the parlor.

Crowley’s good mood lasts through lunch. He eats some of the large salad Yael prepares, and even some of his honey-drizzled challah roll, though he passes the more honey-soaked half to Aziraphale. Watching the angel delicately lick honey off his fingers fills Crowley with the usual longing, but even that is more a source of warmth than pain. He knows that good moods like this can’t last forever, but he’ll enjoy the hell out of this one while it does.

“So,” asks Yael over lunch, “How long are you two able to stay this time?”

“Well, we don’t want to impose…” Aziraphale trails off.

“Oh, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. We meant what we said last night about family.”

“Mind you,” says Naomi with a grin, “After about six months we might have a conversation about rent. But if you can’t afford it, we’ll still let you stay.”

“Six months is probably too long to leave my book shop closed,” says Aziraphale.

“How about a couple of weeks?” Naomi’s face brightens “You could celebrate the first day or two of Sukkot with us!”

“Sweetheart, are you forgetting Yom Kippur?” asks Yael gently.

“Of course not! Oh, I see your point. We’re going to my parents’ place in Jersey in about a week, for Yom Kippur. It’s not really the kind of holiday you’d want to join in—it’s a day of fasting and atonement.”

“And while normally Naomi’s parents would be glad to host friends of ours, Yom Kippur really isn’t a good time for it.”

“Plus you wouldn’t want to be surrounded by a bunch of cranky hungry strangers,” adds Naomi. “But we’ll only be gone for a few days. If you don’t mind staying in an empty house for a bit, you could stay until Sukkot.”

Aziraphale looks thoughtful. “Two weeks is a reasonable length of time for an unscheduled closure. Crowley?”

Crowley shrugs. “I don’t have anywhere to be.” And maybe he can spend more time on the roof.

***** 

The next few days pass by quietly. Naomi’s school is off for almost a month. “The advantage of teaching at a Jewish university” she says. Yael still has to work—she notes that completely neglecting her work at the refugee aid center would be going against the spirit of the High Holidays—but she does leave early in the afternoons. During the days, Naomi and Aziraphale read old books and cheerfully argue about biblical interpretations. Crowley sneaks novels onto the rooftop and reads his way through an entire shelf. In the afternoons, Yael returns and she and Naomi spend time thinking and talking about the past year. They make it clear that Crowley and Aziraphale are welcome to join them, so they do, Aziraphale with enthusiasm, Crowley with mild trepidation.

“Oh!” exclaims Naomi that first afternoon. “Let’s get out our bag of questions!” She leaves the room, and Yael explains, “Last year we wrote down questions we thought we should consider in the following year and put them in the bag. We’ll take turns drawing them out and talking about them.

“Is this a religious thing?” asks Crowley.

“It’s mostly an us thing, though we are supposed to be reflecting on our actions and atoning during these days,” answers Yael as Naomi returns, holding a small cloth bag. “Who should go first?”

“Why don’t you draw the first one?” says Naomi, sitting next to her on the couch and proffering the bag. Yael reaches in, takes out a piece of paper, and reads aloud:

“How does it feel to be the most amazing wife in the world?” She laughs. “Sweetheart, that’s not exactly the purpose of this exercise.”

“I know, but it’s true.” Naomi’s smile is unrepentant.

“Did you plan this last year? What if you’d been the one to draw it? Or was that the plan?”

“I made sure I wouldn’t—I wrote it on a different weight of paper. So I would know to avoid it by feel, but you’d be more likely to notice it subconsciously and draw it.”

“Oh, that’s very clever. How does it feel to be the smartest wife in the world?” She forward to kiss Naomi. Crowley and Aziraphale look away, exchanging the awkward glance of a third and fourth wheel who haven’t formed their own bicycle.

“Sorry, you two,” says Naomi, not sounding particularly sorry.

“No, no” says Aziraphale. “Love should always be celebrated.” He looks over at Crowley, then glances away. Crowley is grateful for his sunglasses, which allow him to avoid making eye contact with anyone.

“ _Any_ way,” says Yael, “Let’s try drawing another one. Unless there are any more surprises I should know about?” She lifts an eyebrow. 

“That’s the only one I remember! Try drawing the next one.”

“I think this is one of yours: ‘What was a kindness you received this year? Did you repay it? Pay it forward? Did it have a lasting effect?’ Do you want to go first, or should I?”

“I can. Um…oh! How about when Zira loaned me his entire house for a night?” She turns toward Aziraphale. “It seemed like such an extravagant way to repay us for hosting, but when I thought about it, I realized you probably didn’t see it that way. You were just being nice, and to you it seemed like a reasonable thing to do. It was a reminder to me not to think about favors as transactional, that instead I should be kind in the ways that seem natural to me, and be open for others to do the same.”

“Do you think there’s a risk of that approach leading you to only do good when it’s easy?” asks Yael.

“Hmm… I guess you could argue that, but note that I said “natural,” not easy. I view it more as a reminder to listen to my inner sense of what’s right, while also remaining open to others’ interpretations. And to understand when people are offering kindness, even if it’s not what I would do.”

They debate the issue a little while longer, and take a similar approach to Yael’s example of a coworker who took one of her cases so that she could prepare for parental leave.

“Do either of you want to share something? It’s completely optional.”

Aziraphale looks thoughtful for a moment. “This may seem minor, but when you asked the question, I thought of how Crowley replaced the button on my jacket. I’ve tried to keep it in good condition for so many years. And he replaced the button without my even asking, just as he removed a paint stain from it in the previous year.”

For a cold-blooded creature, Crowley’s face feels remarkably warm. “It really wasn’t anything. Barely more than a snap of my fingers.”

“But even so,” insists Aziraphale, “you’re always stepping in to help when I need it. It has made me reflect on how much I’ve grown to rely on you.”

Crowley waves both hands in the air. “It’s not kindness, it’s—” he catches himself just in time. “habit. As far as I’m concerned, ‘kind’ is as much a four-letter word as ‘nice.’ I’m neither.” He sees Aziraphale’s eyes shining with sincerity, Naomi and Yael’s with amusement. “Can we talk about anything else?”

Yael stands up. “Who wants hot chocolate?”

On subsequent days, Aziraphale joins in the debate. He doesn’t always share an example, possibly because Yael forbids him from using Crowley again. “We’re not going to make anyone feel embarrassed during this.” Crowley just listens. Some of these are arguments he and Aziraphale have had for thousands of years, though not lately. Listening to the discussion, he realizes that he’s been avoiding these topics with Aziraphale ever since the world failed to end. He’s reluctant to test the strength of their side and risk pushing the angel back towards Heaven. Yes, Heaven tried to kill him, but Aziraphale has been making excuses for them since the Garden, if not before. He’s probably already concocted a narrative for how Gabriel’s attempted murder was part of the ineffable plan.

There’s another reason Crowley hasn’t wanted to argue theology lately. Their last argument had almost broken his heart, and then he’d gone back to apologize and the shop was on fire his heart had broken for real. Just because it had been put back together, along with the Bentley, the shop, and Aziraphale’s earthly body, all the awfulness of that day rewound, didn’t mean he couldn’t still feel the fault lines. But he’s starting to get impatient with himself, tired of tiptoeing around.

By the fifth afternoon, he’s impatient enough to join the debate. The slip of paper had asked,“Was there a time this year you interfered in a situation where you shouldn’t have, or where you kept out when you should have intervened?” Naomi had dramatically looked at Aziraphale and Crowley, Yael had gently elbowed her, and then they had talked about Naomi’s students and Yael’s cases. Then the discussion had moved into the abstract.

“I do wonder,” says Yael, “Whether I’m too hands-off in letting people make their own decisions. Maybe there’s more I could do to pull someone out before they hit bottom.” Naomi looks concerned and a little sad, and squeezes Yael’s hands.

“I think I have a responsibility to help when I can. At least to encourage others to do good, and to try and fix things that go wrong,” says Aziraphale. Crowley remembers an eleven year-old’s voice, saying _It’s hard enough bein’ people as it is, without other people coming and messin’ you around._ He finds himself speaking up.

“Still? Even after everything that’s happened? I feel like if we’ve learned anything, it’s that we’ve done enough damage interfering in people’s lives. We shouldn’t intervene.”

“Crowley, not two weeks ago you were gluing rare coins to the pavement and watching the ensuing chaos from a nearby cafe!” says Aziraphale. Naomi giggles.

“Yes, but that was hilarious,” says Crowley. “Anyway, that’s just pranks. It’s not the same as real meddling.”

“It does sound a little mean, though,” says Yael, though she’s clearly fighting a smile.

“I did say I wasn’t nice.”

“Mean is also a four-letter word, though,” says Naomi.

“She’s got you there, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s smile is a bit smug. Crowley might resent it, if he didn’t feel that annoying rush of warmth every time the angel smiled at him.

“My _point_ is,” he says, “that we should let people make their own messes. They’re better at it anyway. And if we try to go in fixing things, we’re just as likely to make them worse.”

“But what if someone you care about is making a decision that will hurt them?” asks Yael.

Crowley shrugs. “Only way to learn is to make mistakes.”

Aziraphale looks suddenly hurt. “”I’ve appreciated the times you’ve rescued me from my own poor decisions,” he says.

“Oh, I didn’t mean _you_. I meant _people_. Er, _other_ people. Obviously I’m going to keep you out of trouble, otherwise you’ll just end up in jail again.”

Naomi looks suddenly fascinated. “Zira, _you_ were in jail?”

“It’s a very long story, involving poor sartorial decisions and a perfectly understandable craving for crepes,” says Aziraphale with a sigh.

“I feel like we’ve drifted a bit off topic,” Yael interjects. “Crowley, obviously Zira is a special case, but would you really just stand back if Naomi or I got ourselves into trouble?”

Crowley wants to shrug again and say yes, but then he remembers that Yael saw him lifting an injured human out of the water. He didn’t even know the man! “Yes, fine, if either of you end up in jail maybe I’d show up to bail you out. Maybe. But you can’t tell me you've never tried to fix a situation and made it worse.” He points at Naomi, but it’s Yael who winces.

“Indeed, that’s why I try not to interfere,” she says.

“But sometimes it’s hard to resist,” says Naomi with another long look at Crowley and Aziraphale.

The discussion ends soon after, but Crowley thinks about it for the rest of the day.

*****

The following morning, Yael and Naomi prepare to leave.

“Okay, you both have keys, and you know where all the food is, and there’s a bodega down the street if you need more. It’s very close, I don’t see how anyone could get lost.” Naomi looks at the two of them. “Actually, let me print you out a map.”

Yael shakes her head with a smile. “It’s not that she doesn’t trust you two, she just feels bad about leaving you alone while we won’t be answering our phones.”

“No cell towers in New Jersey?” asks Crowley. Yael laughs as if he’s made a joke.

“She always gets like this right before Yom Kippur,” she adds as Naomi returns holding a map. Several locations are circled in red.

“I don’t see what’s strange about it,” says Naomi. “I don’t want to leave any loose ends before the Books are sealed. I want to know that I’m entering the new year with a clean slate.”

Seeing Aziraphale and Crowley’s looks of polite confusion, Yael explains, “Yom Kippur is when we fast and atone for our sins as a community. That we can start the new year with all our unwilling vows nullified and our offenses forgiven by God.”

“What, just like that?” asks Crowley sarcastically.

“Just like that,” replies Yael with her usual calm. “There has to be opportunity for forgiveness and atonement, or all of our wrongs would just weigh us down forever, and we’d never get a chance to reclaim our inner goodness.”

“It’s very cathartic!” says Naomi. “Though I suppose that could just be the low blood sugar.”

Aziraphale looks worried. “Are you supposed to fast in your condition?”

“Oh no, I’m not fasting. My dad has already prepared a set of extremely bland and nutritious foods just for me. But everyone else will be.”

“We should head out before we miss our train, Sweet. Are all your loose ends tied up here?”

Naomi looks at their two guests. “Will you both be all right? Crowley, you’re frowning.”

“Just thinking.”

“Okay, well, don’t burn the place down while we’re gone.”

“That only happened once, and it was hardly my fault!” protests Aziraphale. Naomi looks worried again.

“There are fire extinguishers in the kitchen…”

“We will be fine,” says Crowley. “Go atone.”

*****

After they leave, Crowley wanders up to the roof, but the day is cloudy and cool, and he feels restless. His mind keeps returning to the idea of a clean slate. At first it seems amusing, just another example of humans and their ways. He’s not great at listening to his feelings—he’s spent several millennia ruthlessly ignoring certain feelings, in fact—so he doesn’t even realize that he’s angry. He paces around the house, ignoring Aziraphale’s attempts at conversation. Finally, he returns to the garden and surveys the plants.

“You,” he announces, “have grown complacent and lazy. I’m sure you think that you can take advantage of the humans’ kindness and underperform. But now you have to deal with me, and I” he smiles with sharpened teeth “am not kind in the slightest.”

He starts to move around the garden, enumerating the flaws of each plant and describing in excruciating detail the consequences it will face for continued failure. Absorbed in his task, Crowley fails to notice Aziraphale until the angel softly clears his throat.

“Crowley, I don’t think Yael and Naomi would approve of you abusing their plants in this way.”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” says Crowley without turning around.

“Crowley.”

He spins around. “ _What_?”

“Will you take a walk with me? I saw a nearby park on Naomi’s map.”

It’s not _their_ park—there’s a dearth of secret agents and an excess of hipsters—but it’s _a_ park, and there’s a pond, and there are ducks, and they have stale challah rolls.

They toss some bread into the water and watch the ducks race after it. Aziraphale speaks first.

“Did Yael or Naomi say something to upset you?”

“Since when do you care if I’m upset?” Crowley knows he sounds sulky, but he can’t help it.

“I know I don't always notice, but I do care. And I’m working on being more observant.”

“Really? Why?”

“You’re avoiding the question, my dear.” Aziraphale can be annoyingly persistent.

“It’s just…this whole atonement thing. It’s only ten days. It’s too easy.”

“You already knew that humans can be redeemed. It’s part of ineffable free will,” says Aziraphale gently.

“Maybe I never thought about it before!” snaps Crowley. “These humans just spend a day not eating and feeling sorry, and God forgives them, just like that!”

“Yes, and?” Aziraphale seems confused. Crowley wants to lash out at him for his incomprehension, but the look of genuine concern on the angel’s face stops him. Anyway, he never wants to hurt Aziraphale, even when Aziraphale says something hurtful himself. So Crowley just sighs, and asks,

“Why only humans?” 

He watches the angel’s face go from confused, to shocked, to sad.

“Crowley, I…” Aziraphale’s voice trails off as he reaches out and takes Crowley’s hand. Even now, when he’s angry and sad, there’s that little ripple of happiness that runs through him whenever the angel touches him. But he’s still upset, and now he’s also mad at himself for being pathetic enough to be happy about a sympathetic touch, so he snatches his hand back and tries to ignore Aziraphale’s slightly crestfallen look.

“I wasn’t aware you even wanted to be forgiven. You certainly haven’t evinced any interest in returning to Heaven.”

“Neither have you, angel, and you’re supposed to be there.”

“Yes, well, as you pointed out, Heaven lacks certain things. Books, sushi, ducks, my friend of six thousand years.”He smiles at Crowley. Crowley doesn’t smile back.

There’s no way to explain to an angel that some hurts never really go away. You can put yourself back together and cover the wounds up with scar tissue, and you can keep growing and changing, but somewhere in the back of your mind you’ll always wonder. _Who would I have become if I hadn’t been broken like this?_ Crowley knows that Aziraphale can feel self-doubt and worry whether he’s doing the right thing, but underneath is a certainty there there is good, that God is good, that there’s an ineffable plan that is for the best. Crowley remembers that he once had that certainty, but it’s been so long that he can’t quite remember what it felt like. And he knows he’ll never feel it again.

But at the same time…

“No, I wouldn’t want to go back. They cast me out, and I learned how much I could survive. Learned all sorts of things. I wouldn’t give that up.” _Not even for you, angel, though I’d be tempted to_.

“Anyway,” his serious expression sliding into a smirk. “Heaven was boring. And I like it here.”

“So do I,” said Aziraphale. “And…I’m glad you survived. Very glad. And I’m glad you’re who you are.”

“What?”

“I mean, I’ve always thought it was unfair that you were cast down—“

“Un _fair_? Do you even remember the Rebellion, angel?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale’s eyes take on an odd faraway cast that Crowley has never seen before and doesn’t think he likes. “I still had my sword back then, you know. I did my duty. I even received a commendation.” The angel goes quiet, still looking into the distance. “I think perhaps I have things to atone for as well.” He shudders, and his gaze refocuses on Crowley. “I’m glad those days are far in the past. And, my point is, I like you as Crowley. More than I like any angel.”

“I like you more than any other angels, too. Can you imagine if Gabriel had been sent down here? I’d have helped Armageddon along just to get rid of him.” He wouldn’t have, of course. He loves the earth as much as he loves Aziraphale.

“Crowley, that’s hardly comparable.”

“Well, it’s not as though I like any other demons either.”

“ _Crowley._ ”

“Sorry, angel. It’s just…let’s drop it, okay?”

Aziraphale nods, and seems to go far away again. Crowley starts to regret, well, a lot of things actually, but mostly letting the conversation get to this point. He leans to the side, bumping his shoulder against Aziraphale’s. The angel continues staring across the water for a moment, then takes Crowley’s hand. This time, Crowley doesn’t snatch it away. Aziraphale looks at him and smiles ruefully. “Sorry, my dear. Memories. You understand.”

He does. He threads his fingers through Aziraphale’s, and says “Come on, angel, let’s go back to the house and have some tea.”

They walk back, Aziraphale lightly talking about the weather and the books he’s been reading. Crowley nods along and contributes the occasional sarcastic remark. Neither one pulls his hand back, and they don’t let go until Aziraphale has to unlock the door.

*****

The next day, Crowley makes an effort to set aside his lingering resentment and avoid any sinkholes in his conversations with Aziraphale. They manage a perfectly congenial outing to a nearby bakery and Crowley’s efforts seem to be working until late afternoon, when they’re standing in the park again and Aziraphale says, “ _I_ forgive you, you know”

Crowley is watching teenaged ducklings follow their mother into the pond and doesn’t catch the thread of the conversation. “Forgive me for what?”

“Everything.” The angel waves his hand around vaguely. “Not that you’ve ever done anything to me, except that incident in the Garden, but it was my choice to give away the sword, and that’s what I actually got in trouble for…”

Crowley turns away from the ducklings and watches Aziraphale and he continues to ramble.

“but that’s all beside the point. The point is, I forgive you, even if God doesn’t. Hasn’t. Yet. For everything.”

“Everything?” Crowley raises an eyebrow. “You don’t even know why I was cast out.”

“It doesn’t matter. I know _you_ , Crowley, and I know you wouldn’t do anything too terrible. You never have, not in the six thousand years I’ve known you. Whatever it was, you deserve forgiveness.”

Crowley studies the angel. How very like Aziraphale, to try to counter the punishment of Heaven with his own small gesture, as if one being’s stubborn insistence on common decency could make up for all the horrors of Heaven and Hell and everything in between.

Then again, if he had to choose between God’s love and the angel’s, well, he knows which he’d rather have.

Aziraphale looks worried again. “Crowley?” he asks, reaching out as if to touch him, then stopping, his hand stretched halfway out.

“Everything?” the demon asks again. He considers what he has to lose, and all the years he’s waited, and thinks _I could just kiss him._ Aziraphale would probably turn red and say “ _Crowley!_ ” Crowley could shrug it off and make a joke out of it, and then…his imagination isn’t sure where to go from there. It will probably ruin what is currently a nice moment. But then again… _Why not?_

He looks at Aziraphale through his glasses, and leans forward, and Aziraphale tilts his head up and

Crowley panics.

He freezes for a moment, then says “You have something on your face. Cake, maybe. Let me get it off.” He brushes at the nonexistent crumbs. Aziraphale steps back, waves him away, brushes his face off himself. There’s an awkward pause, neither of them quite making eye contact.

“I suppose we should go back and tidy up the place before Naomi and Yael return tomorrow.”

“Hey, angel?”

“Yes?”

“I forgive you too.”

Aziraphale looks back at him and smiles.

“Are you sure? I’ve been rather a trial to you at times.”

“I’m sure. Even the time I had to walk on consecrated ground. And the time I had to go all the way to France.”

“You must admit they were excellent crepes.”

They probably had been. Crowley remembers eating slightly more than half of his before giving the rest to Aziraphale, so they must have been good. But mostly he remembers Aziraphale’s delight in them.

Aziraphale sighs. “I haven’t always been kind to you. I am sorry for that.”

Crowley shrugs. “I know it’s hard for you to fraternize with a demon.” Aziraphale winces.

“It never has been, actually. It’s always been rather easy. That was the problem.”

“Glad to hear it isn’t anymore.”

“It never should have been.” The accompanying smile, like so many of Aziraphale’s, has too much personality to qualify as “angelic,” despite its origins. “I _am_ capable of learning, you know.”

“So am I, angel.”

“I never doubted it.”

Crowley still has a knot of resentment and anger inside of him, he always does, but for a moment he feels a little bit lighter. The slates of their endless existence may never be wiped clean, but there’s always space to write something new. Maybe their learning can be its own form of atonement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Not quite a Yom Kippur chapter, more Yom Kippur-adjacent. 
> 
> The were-bear romance is real, by the way. It's called _Bearly A Lady_, by Cassandra Khaw. If you've ever thought that what chick-lit needed was a plus-sized bisexual woc protagonist who turns into a bear once a month, I have good news for you. 
> 
> Four chapters left! Thank you again for all your wonderful comments!


	6. The Gaps That Let the Light In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: another mention of emotionally abusive parenting. Not very detailed, but it's there.
> 
> [Explanatory notes (and some recipes) for this chapter are here.](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/264683809)

The day after Yom Kippur, Yael and Naomi return from New Jersey in a flurry of optimism and plans. Crowley will never admit to being glad to see them, but he is relieved that there’s someone to break the awkwardness. In the wake of the conversations of the past two days, one might suppose that Crowley would feel less need to be quite so careful around Aziraphale. Instead, embarrassment or an excess of caution makes them both more hesitant, unsure where the new boundaries are. He keeps finding himself starting to say something, then stopping, worried about where the conversation will go. Yael and Naomi spend a few hours trying to draw them out, but by the following day, they’ve switched strategies.

Crowley wakes up late that morning to find the house empty. Before he can panic, he sees a note on the nightstand in Aziraphale’s obnoxiously perfect handwriting.

> “My Dearest Crowley,
> 
> At Naomi’s insistence, I am accompanying her to something called a ‘home improvement store.’ I very much hope to return within two hours, but Naomi is being distressingly vague about the timescale involved. I have written her mobile number below; please do call should you encounter any difficulties. I will endeavour to return as quickly as possible.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Aziraphale”

Next to his printed name is an angelic sigil that Crowley knows better than to touch. _Thank you angel, for signing your letter with something that will burn me. Definitely thought that one through._

They're gone closer to two and a half hours, during which span Crowley comes very near to calling the number on the paper several times, possibly using the phone signal as a conduit to where ever the two of them have gone. He restrains himself—he knows Aziraphale is perfectly capable of handling whatever a home improvement store is. And Naomi would be rather disconcerted if he appeared out of her phone.

When they finally return, they both have armfuls of canvas, bamboo, boxes of nails, and some wooden boards.

“Crowley! Can you help us? There’s more stuff on the sidewalk by the front door.”

Crowley fulfills Naomi’s request, cheating a bit by making the remaining objects light enough to easily carry upstairs. He finds Naomi and Aziraphale on the top floor, Naomi passing construction materials up the ladder to Aziraphale.

“What’s all this?” Crowley asks.

“We’re going to start building the sook-ah!” The word sounds vaguely familiar to Crowley, but not enough that he knows the meaning. It isn’t until Yael returns in the afternoon and pronounces it “su-KAH” that he and Aziraphale recognize the Hebrew word.

“Of course!” Aziraphale exclaims. “A tabernacle!”

“I thought it was just a kind of shed,” says Crowley. He means to ask why they’re building a shed on the roof, but he’s distracted by Naomi dragging Aziraphale into the kitchen, announcing that she’s going to teach him to make rugelach. Before Crowley can decide whether rescue is called for, Yael calls him into the living room and invites him to listen to music with her.

“Zira said you like bebop, so I thought you might enjoy some of the jazz LPs Naomi’s father gave me.”

Crowley sighs. “He calls everything composed in the past 150 years ‘be-bop’.”

“Well, you’re welcome to poke around my music collection and have a listen.” There’s a muffled clanging from the other side of the dining room. “It will distract us both from whatever is happening in the kitchen.”

“Naomi’s not a good cook?”

“Oh, she’s a perfectly reasonable cook, and a great baker, but she can get a bit… enthusiastic. And I get the impression that Zira isn’t much for baking.”

“No, though he does like the end result.”

Crowley and Yael take turns picking from her large collection of vinyl, CDs, and music files. To Crowley’s immense relief, Yael mostly restricts her conversation to brief comments such as “Oh, I love this part,” and “listen to that bassline.” When she does have something more substantive to talk about, she mercifully avoids any talk of feelings, and sticks to music.

“Are any of these Naomi’s?”

Yael points. “In that cabinet over there. We have almost opposite tastes in music—she likes folk, extremely sincere pop, and power ballads. At least we can agree on Mirah.”

Naomi’s voice drifts over from the kitchen. “Play Mirah!”

Yael smiles and shrugs. “See?”

Eventually the worrying sounds from the other room die down and a surprisingly nice smell wafts across the floor. Yael and Crowley venture into the dining room to find two large trays of crescent-shaped biscuits. Well, half are crescent-shaped. The pastries on the second tray are a variety of twisty shapes, with blisters and bubbles of jam, and a few scorch marks. Aziraphale and Naomi are dusted in flour and splattered with jam.

“Crowley, try one of these! I made them!” Aziraphale is almost floating off the ground with pride as he gestures toward the tray of misshapen sweets.

Crowley picks one up and takes a small bite. Despite its unprepossessing appearance, it’s actually rather tasty. “Chocolate, cinnamon, _and_ apricot?”

Aziraphale’s smile is a bit rueful. “I got carried away. Too much?”

He takes another bite. “They’re not bad, actually.” Yael and Naomi are distracted with each other, so he leans toward Aziraphale and murmurs, “Didn’t use a miracle?”

“Crowley! That would be cheating! Anyway,” he continues, “Naomi would have noticed. She was observing me closely to make sure I did everything correctly.”

Crowley pops the last bite into his mouth and raises his voice to normal volume. “Not bad at all, angel. I’m impressed.” Aziraphale beams at him.

Yael speaks up from the kitchen doorway. “Speaking of impressive, this is quite a mess you’ve left in here. How on earth did you manage to get apricot jam on the ceilings? They’re almost ten feet high.” Naomi’s response is inaudible, though she doesn’t sound particularly penitent. As the two women emerge from the kitchen, Aziraphale says,

“I’m sorry, it was mostly my fault. I’ll clean it up.”

“Well, in the meantime, let’s order delivery for dinner. Any preferences?” asks Yael.

Naomi looks excited. “Ooh, can we order from the hummus place? I suddenly have an intense craving for sabich.”

“Fine by me. Do you two want to look at the menu with us and see if there’s anything you like?”

Aziraphale looks anxiously at the kitchen. “I should probably start on the mess…”

Crowley sighs. “Go on, I’ll take care of it.”

The angel’s face brightens. “Oh, thank you!” The smile fades and he looks thoughtful for a moment. “Are you sure? I did make the mess…”

“Oh, for Hell’s sake. You actually care about food, unlike me.” _I just like to watch you enjoy it._ “Go handle the ordering for both of us, and I’ll clean this up.”

Aziraphale’s smile returns, softer and warmer than before. “Thank you, Crowley. You're...well, I won't say it.” He hurries into the sitting room.

Crowley goes into the kitchen and surveys the mess. They had indeed managed to get apricot jam on the almost 3-meter high ceilings, along with chocolate on the walls and cinnamon-laced flour _everywhere_. The sink is filled with mixing bowls, measuring cups, and a variety of spoons. He waves his hand around to clear off the surfaces, waves it again to clean all the dishes in the sink. Unlike certain angels, Crowley is capable of basic restraint, so he does not put all the dishes back in their respective places. Instead, he leaves them stacked neatly on the now-gleaming counter. He waits a full five minutes before leaving the kitchen, not wanting to make it look like he worked too quickly. Not that he has any idea how long it takes to clean a kitchen.

Yael raises an eyebrow as he enters the room. “Don’t tell me you’re finished already.”

He shrugs. “I’m fast. _Too_ fast, according to some.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “How many years ago was that? I’m sorry I said it.” There’s an awkward silence, broken by Naomi’s brisk voice saying “Well, I hope you’ll like the food. Zira ordered…a lot.”

“Which I insist on paying for, by the way,” the angel adds.

It takes the delivery person two trips to carry all the food from her bicycle. Crowley notices Naomi passing the young woman a large tip. He watches with appreciation as she cycles away, cutting off three cars and a pram in less than a block. He doubles the cash in her pocket just before she vanishes from sight.

Aziraphale has ordered creamy hummus, baba ganoush, four pita sandwiches stuffed full of things—“sabich!” cries Naomi in delight—a dish of eggs poached in spicy tomato sauce, a plate of falafel, a container of labneh, a basket of za’atar-spiced pita, four kinds of salad, and some baklava.

Yael surveys the feast. “Well that’s lunch all week sorted.”

“Breakfast too,” says Naomi around a mouthful of sandwich.

Crowley rather likes the sandwich and the tomato sauce, though he eats sparingly and gives the rest to Aziraphale. Watching the angel eat is even more delightful than usual—his face lights up each time he tastes a new dish, and there are so many dishes on the table. Aziraphale takes a bite of falafel, closes his eyes in rapture, then delicately licks the tahini off his fingers. Crowley finds himself unable to speak. His face must give something away, because Yael gives him a sympathetic look, and Naomi giggles.

“Hey sweet, what should we do for dinner tomorrow night?” Yael asks.

“Will you make fried chicken?”

“That’s a Chanukah dish, you know.”

“We can have it for both! Please?” Naomi’s eyes are wide and pleading. “Humor your pregnant wife?”

Yael laughs. “How could I resist that face?”

*****

The next morning, Naomi has Aziraphale and Crowley accompany her to the rooftop to help build the shed. She shows them the plan she and Yael had drawn up: a sort of rectangular box, with a wooden frame and canvas stretched to make three walls. Crowley and Aziraphale’s eyes meet over the rough blueprint, and they silently come to an agreement. It would take a miracle for either of them to use a hammer, at least without a great deal of frustration and probably some minor injuries. So for the next few hours, they take turns distracting Naomi while the other makes the necessary miracles occur. The end result is an impressively sturdy frame that manages to hold up the canvas. Then it’s time to work on the roof.

“Why not use more canvas?” asks Crowley, weaving leaves and palm fronds through a lattice of bamboo. “It would be easier, and keep the rain out.”

“It has to be made from greenery,” says Naomi. “And it can’t keep the rain out—you need to be able to see the stars through the gaps.”

“Not that you can see any stars from Brooklyn,” says Yael, climbing up the ladder onto the roof.

“Welcome home!” Naomi’s face lights up. “I thought you wouldn’t be back until one!”

“It _is_ one, sweetie. Does that mean you forgot to eat lunch?”

“Oops. Well, we have lots of leftovers. But let’s get the roof on first.”

Over lunch, Crowley finally gets around to asking, “Why are we building a shed on your roof?”

“It’s a sukkah,” says Yael. “Which, yes, means something like shed, or closer, booth, but in this case it’s for Sukkot.”

“That’s just the plural form! Why are we building a booth for Booths?”

Naomi giggles. “I forgot you speak Hebrew. It’s the _Festival_ of Sukkot. So it’s the Celebration of Booths.”

Crowley raises an unimpressed eyebrow but refuses to dignify that answer with further questions.

After a moment, Yael takes pity on him. “It’s a harvest festival. The sukkah is supposed to remind us of our ancestors’ temporary dwellings during our forty years in the desert, but the holiday itself is even older.”

“Starting tonight, we’ll be eating all of our meals inside the sukkah,” adds Naomi. “Some years we even sleep in it, but I’m not quite up for that this year.”

“Because of the weather?” asks Aziraphale.

“More because of my bladder. I don’t want to be climbing up and down the ladder all night.” She grins at the looks on their faces. “Sorry, TMI?”

Crowley shakes his head in disbelief. How do humans ever manage to create more of themselves? It’s probably for the best that he’s no longer on speaking terms with God, because he has an entire new set of questions for Her, mostly about humans, and he’s not inclined to phrase any of them politely.

*****

After lunch, Yael and Naomi resume their divide-and-conquer approach. Yael lures Aziraphale into the living room by mentioning how excited she is that she finally has someone to talk about Georgette Heyer novels with. Naomi rolls her eyes.

“Not a fan of romances?” asks Crowley.

“Oh, I love a good romance, I just don’t like Georgette Heyer. The books are fun, I guess, but I can’t forgive her for the nauseatingly anti-Semitic caricature in _Grand Sophy_. It doesn’t bother Yael as much, though she did paperclip those pages together so she can more easily skip that scene. But she reads more old novels than I do, so I guess she’s more used to shrugging that stuff off.”

“Anyway,” she continues briskly, “I was hoping you’d help me decorate the walls of the sukkah. I’ve got paint and stencils and stuff, but it’s no fun doing it alone, and Yael doesn’t like painting.”

Crowley shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

Inside the sukkah, Naomi lays out paint and brushes, and gestures to the two longer sides. “You take that one, I’ll take this one.”

Crowley looks at the blank canvas, trying to decide what to paint. Ancient sigils from the Black Priesthood of Mu would probably be inappropriate. His eyes drift to the gaps in the roof, with its bits of sky peeking through, and he begins to get an idea. He dips a wide brush in the container of black paint.

“So,” says Naomi. Before she can get out another word, Crowley interrupts.

“Oh no, don’t you start. I know for a fact that you’ve promised your wife not to pry and not to interfere. Don’t even start.”

She laughs. “Message received. I’m sorry for being so pushy. I care about you both and I hate seeing you unhappy,but I’ll try really hard to knock it off.”

They paint quietly for a few moments. Crowley decides that the paint is insufficiently black, and makes it darker and matte, the soft black of the void.

“Can I ask some questions that aren’t about the, um, dynamic between you and Zira.”

“I suppose,” he says grudgingly. “But if I don’t like the question I reserve the right to make up outlandish lies in response.” He dips his brush back in the bucket, and it comes out narrower and dripping with a dark teal color.

“Ha, fair enough. So, Zira mentioned you like gardening?”

They chat about plants and music and novels—it turns out most of the books Crowley read over the previous week were Naomi’s—as Crowley slowly adds reds and purples to the canvas. It’s easy to talk to Naomi, especially when they’re facing in opposite directions and he doesn’t have to worry about eye contact. With no one looking at his face, Crowley’s also able to push his glasses up on his forehead and see the colors better. They somehow get on the subject of whales, which Naomi is very enthusiastic about, and this keeps them occupied for long enough that Crowley has time to add most of the highlights he needs—orange, pink, and gold—before Naomi veers away from light conversation.

“Okay, so this one is a little more serious. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. Or if you don’t know.”

Crowley sighs as he adds wisps of aqua and emerald green. “Yes?”

“It’s just…I’m a little worried about Zira. He seems so anxious sometimes, I keep worrying that he thinks we’re mad at him.”

“He always worries like that. If anything, he’s better about it than he used to be.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. You already know that our, er, families are terrible. I never really cared what mine thought, so long as I didn’t piss them off enough to make them come after me. But he was worried about both of us—afraid my family would find out about us and destroy me, and also afraid of what his own would do. Even though,” Crowley warms to his subject, flicking drops of white and silver on the painting as he talks. “Even though they never bothered to check up on him. All they did was send down reprimands, and tell him he was doing the wrong thing and he was going to fail. They treated him like he was stupid, when anyone can see how smart he is. _And_ they tried to make him feel bad about eating, and being soft, as if there’s something wrong with appreciating food and being kind to people. I _like_ how soft he is. It’s wonderful.” He stops, realizing that he’s broken his own prohibition on subject matter.

“I can tell.” He can’t see Naomi’s face, but it sounds like she’s smiling.

“I mean, he’s a lot tougher than he looks. Doesn’t back down in a crisis, either. But they never noticed. They’re all a bunch of boring sanctimonious pricks who don’t even have the decency to admit when they’re being evil. And that was before they tried to kill him.”

Crowley has finished, save for one final touch. He leans forward and breathes a tiny spark of power into it—nothing noticeable, just enough that any viewer will have the faintest sense of what it was like to see the real thing. He pushes his glasses back down and turns around.

“They sound awful,” says Naomi. “I guess that would give anyone anxiety. And Zira’s such a sweetie.” She’s finishing up her own wall, mostly blue-green waves and slightly cartoony drawings of whales. They’re rather cute, not that Crowley would ever admit to thinking something was cute. She adds a last couple of lines to the humpback, then starts to turn around.

“Are you done with your—“ she stops, brush hanging limply from one hand and dripping onto the dropcloth. “Oh…” For a moment, she is silent, just staring at the wall. “Crowley, that’s…amazing. How did you even do it?It’s gorgeous.”

Crowley shrugs, secretly pleased. Along the entire canvas wall, he’s painted the Carina Nebula, his favorite of all the ones he designed so many eons ago, sprawling across the blackness of space. “You said you were supposed to be able to see the stars.”

“I… yes, but…I’m going to get Yael and Zira, they have to see this.”

Yael’s eyes go wide when she sees the painting, but all she says is “This is a big improvement over my painting. I usually just trace some maple leaves and call it a day.”

Aziraphale murmurs to Crowley, “Was this your work?”

Crowley hesitates a moment before nodding. He knows Aziraphale isn’t just talking about the painted wall. He’s never talked about the early days, not with Aziraphale or anyone else.

“Absolutely stunning, my dear.” The angel’s smile is like a sunbeam, and Crowley wants to curl up in its light. Instead, he shrugs again. “You know how it is. Why waste a blank canvas on something ugly?”

“Why indeed?”

Everyone admires Crowley’s work for another few minutes, then Naomi suggests that they all paint a tree on the middle wall. “That way we can have sea, sky, and land all represented.”

She and Crowley draw the tree itself and fill in the outlines. Aziraphale insists on adding apples to the tree, smiling at Crowley as he does so. Yael, true to her word, traces some maple leaves in orange and red. The end result is botanically dubious but rather charming.

The paint dries quickly, thanks to a small intervention by Aziraphale, and the entire sukkah is ready just before sundown. To Crowley’s delight, this appears to be another holiday involving wine, though he has to sit through three entire blessings before he’s allowed to drink. And even then he only gets the one glass at first, because then Yael conscripts him—and Aziraphale—to help her carry dinner up to the roof. Only then can he sprawl out across some pillows and enjoy his drink.

By the time dinner is over and Yael and Naomi have gone to bed, Crowley is a little ways past tipsy. Maybe that’s why the argument happens. Or maybe he was already looking for one.

It starts innocuously enough, with Aziraphale admiring his painting.

“It really is beautiful. It’s unfortunate that the light pollution here is too strong to see the original.”

“‘Sstrue in London too, you know. First the smog, then the lights. Don’t get to see stars that often anymore.” This is one reason he lives in London. He loves the stars, but sometimes it’s hard to look at them.

“I should have known you’d have a hand in creating something so beautiful, but I confess that it never occurred to me.”

That stings, just a bit. “They were hardly going to advertise it up there, were they? Doesn’t make them look great, demons helping design the cosmos.”

Aziraphale looks sad. “They do lack a certain generosity of spirit. Sometimes I think it’s for the best that our respective sides have disowned us.”

Crowley knows he shouldn’t be angry, there’s no point in being angry, he hates being angry at Aziraphale. And yet.

“You _think?_ Sometimes _?!”_

“Yes, I do. Maybe more than sometimes. I firmly believe that we were doing the right thing preventing the war, and that my side at least will eventually recognize it. I’m disappointed that they haven’t yet, but they’ll have to come around eventually. It’s part of the ineffable plan, after all.”

He knows he should calm down, that he’ll regret the argument later, but Crowley can’t seem to disengage. He realizes that this anger has been with him for a long time, waiting to be noticed. He’s too good at ignoring his feelings sometimes.

“Still? After all this time, you still care about some plan? So, what, if Sandalphon or Gabriel showed up at the shop you’d just ask for your orders?”

“Oh, no,” says Aziraphale in a matter-of-fact tone, “I’d discorporate them on sight.” At Crowley’s startled look, the angel tilts his head to one side. “I may be soft, my dear, but I’m not going to give them a chance to hurt you.”

“Hurt _me_?”

“Why, yes. Having failed to execute me, they may well decide to punish me by harming you. And that,” his eyes narrow, “I will not tolerate.”

Crowley wishes that Heaven would run out of ways to disappoint him. “Even my side wouldn’t stoop to that. I mean, not out of morals or anything, more because even reminding everyone I exist is bad for discipline at this point, but still. How is it again that they can still call themselves the good side?”

Aziraphale smiles sadly. “Your side can afford to be pragmatic. Gabriel probably believes he has a moral duty to see me punished.”

“Sso _why_ ,” he realizes he’s shouting, lowers his voice so as not to wake the humans, “do you want to be asssociated with them?!”

“It’s not Gabriel I care about, Crowley, it’s the Allmighty. And the ineffable plan.”

“Fuck the ineffable plan! God hasn’t sspoken to you since you did the decent thing and gave away your sword. She casst us out of Heaven, kicked the humans out of Eden, and then fucked off to do only she knowss what.” He’s hissing again. He hates hissing.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale closes his eyes. “It’s not as easy for me, to break the rules. You know that. I don’t _want_ to question everything. I want peace and calm, and maybe a chance to do good sometimes.”

“Fine. I’ll take my questions somewhere else.”

“Crowley!”

Even as angry as he is, he doesn’t want to distress Aziraphale unduly. “I’m just going for a walk. Giving you some ‘peace and calm’.” Any attempt at a dignified exit was probably ruined by the singsong tone of “peace and calm,” but dignity has never been his strongest suit.

*****

Cities, Crowley has decided, are good places to be unhappy in. It’s one of the many reasons he enjoys London. If he were out in farmland or woods, there would be lush greenery to comfort him. If he were in the desert or the mountains or on the ocean, he would look out on the emptiness and the sky full of stars and let the scale of the universe overwhelm him for a moment. You can’t get up a good sulk when you’re surrounded by beauty. But in a city he can just wander the streets and be upset to his demonic heart’s content. So he does, walking past restaurants and bars and taco trucks, through several parks and a graveyard, along a rather smelly canal, and down among the warehouses.

Despite the late hour, there’s no lack of people out walking, eating, arguing, kissing, staggering drunkenly, or just quietly fuming like Crowley. Most of them politely ignore him, and each other. He glares at them all through his glasses.

“Hey, uh,” says a human in a baseball cap, actually looking at Crowley. “Got a light?” He holds out a cigarette.

Still rehashing the argument in his head, Crowley flicks a distracted hand. The man yelps and drops his cigarette as the entire thing goes up in flame.

“Oh, er, sorry about that. Here.” Crowley hands the man a fresh one, carefully lighting only the tip. The human accepts it warily, then seems to decide he doesn’t care where it came from.

“Thanks, man.”

Crowley waves and walks off. In a gesture of apology, he refills the crumpled pack sticking out of the man’s coat pocket, justifying it to himself by remembering that smoking is unhealthy, and thus he’s actually tempting the man to sin. Then he remembers that he doesn’t need to justify his actions anymore. It’s been over a year, and he was never that good at obedience to begin with, but it’s still a bit unsettling to be operating without any guidance at all. But unlike certain angels, he knows that things are better this way.

After a while, he comes to three realizations: it’s starting to get light, he’s very cold, and he has no idea where he is. He tries to mentally retrace his steps, but he’s been meandering in no particular pattern for hours. Aziraphale doesn’t have a mobile, and he’s never actually bothered to get Naomi or Yael’s numbers. With a great sense of foreboding, it dawns on Crowley that he is going to have to ask for directions.

He decides to try at the nearest bakery, because it’s open and warm. It’s filled with cheesecake and flan and various sweet buns that Aziraphale would probably know the names of and would definitely want to eat. The teenage girl behind the counter is haranguing a customer.

“What do you mean you don’t have time to play it? I found time, and I work in a _bakery_.” The other woman meekly agrees and escapes with her bag of pastries.

“I still love your earrings!” the girl calls after her, then turns to Crowley. “Can I help you?”

“Black coffee and directions to my friends’ place.”

“Sure, that’ll be $1.25. Where do they live?”

“Um… near a park?”

She gives him a long exasperated stare. “Big park or little park?”

“Big park. Even moreso than the large cemetery. There’s a pond in it, too. With ducks.”

“Oh ducks, _that_ narrows it down.” She rolls her eyes, then relents. “It’s probably Prospect Park. Just go up 5th Ave—that’s the street we’re on now—until you hit 15th St, then take a left.”

“Oh. That’s…rather straightforward.”

She gives him another look. “It’s all a grid. There’s only so complicated it can get.”

A city laid out on a grid. What a novel idea. Not a patch on London for purposes of mayhem, but convenient at the moment. (Later he’ll discover that Brooklyn is actually laid out on many different grids, and be delighted once again by the ingenious human tendency to make life unnecessarily complicated.) He thanks the girl, but she’s already playing a game on her phone and ignoring him.

When Crowley gets back to the house, he finds Aziraphale pacing around the living room. The worry lifts off the angel’s face, but he bites his lip and doesn’t say anything. Crowley is likewise silent. In all their previous fights, they’ve stormed off and avoided each other for days or decades, then pretended nothing happened. Except that last, worst fight, when he came back to apologize and found the burning book shop. It was easy to ignore their last fight after that, what with the world almost ending.

Now there’s no armageddon, and he doesn’t want to go away for a year or fifty. But Crowley doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do instead. He’s relieved that Aziraphale is fine, and that the building isn’t on fire—an irrational worry, but it’s been at the back of his mind—but he’s still upset. And Aziraphale seems similarly at a loss. So they’re both silent until Naomi and Yael come downstairs.

Naomi surveys the scene: Crowley curled up on one corner of the couch sulking, while Aziraphale sits morosely on the other end. Crowley sees her catch Yael’s eye and jerk her head toward him. Then she says “Zira, do you have a moment to help me with breakfast?” and drags him into the kitchen before he can answer. Yael takes his place on the couch, not saying anything. Crowley’s glad he got the quiet one.

There are murmurs from the kitchen, then a sudden shout of laughter that continues for several minutes. He scowls. “ _They’re_ having fun.”

Yael snorts. “Naomi is, anyway. That’s her ‘laughing at you’ laugh, not her ‘with you’ one. Zira probably said something spectacularly stupid.”

There’s another long silence.

If one were to ask Crowley whether he could out-last a mortal, he would likely point out that he had all of eternity to wait, while a human has at best a scant handful of decades. There’s really no competition. 

He lasts about a minute and a half. He’s never been good at stillness.

“Okay, fine. So you’re probably going to tell me a story from your past now, aren’t you?”

Yael shrugs. “I was considering it. But not if it will be unwelcome.”

He can’t even make this silence stretch out for a full minute.

“Oh, whatever. Go ahead.”

She’s quiet for a moment longer while Crowley shifts restlessly.

“Naomi and I fight sometimes. We fought a lot more when we were younger. About lots of things, some big, some not so much. Some of our worst fights were about small things, but they were really about resentment. She grew up with money, and stability, and parents who aren’t terrible. Sometimes that would make her oblivious to certain things and she’d say something thoughtless. And sometimes I’d be jealous and resentful and lash out.”

“I’m not _jealous_ ,” says Crowley.

“I know. That’s not the story I’m telling. It’s just some context. I have to work up to this.” She takes a deep breath. “My parents split up when I was young. I’m not exactly sure when—they kept reconciling and then having screaming fights and breaking up again. They were pretty terrible together. My dad wasn’t always the best father, so when my mom moved out, I was glad I was staying with her. But we moved a lot. She wasn’t the best mother, either. Or person, really. Beautiful, and brilliant, but she’d eventually get restless and angry, and then we’d have to move again. Not because she alienated anyone—she really is amazingly charismatic—but because she’d feel under-appreciated and decide to go somewhere better.”

Crowley isn’t sure where this is going, but he tries to be patient.

“I was a good kid. The sort of kid who never breaks any rules, gets perfect grades, the whole thing. I hated disappointing her. And I always took her side when she had fights, even when it meant suddenly cutting off people that I’d grown fond of. I didn’t think she could be in the wrong. I said some pretty awful things to my dad, actually, because she told me I should.” A bit of a smile crosses Yael’s face. “I’d feel a lot worse about that if he didn’t disown me a few years later, when I came out.”

“Came out where?”

An amused glance. “As a lesbian.”

“Oh.” He waves a hand. “Sorry, continue.”

“Anyway, I said and did a lot of things back then that I regret. And you’d think that after all that, I’d have expected it when she turned on me too, but it came a a complete surprise. I stuck around for another two years, trying to help her, thinking it was my fault, believing her when she told me that everyone secretly hated me. And I couldn’t tell anyone, because she was still keeping up the facade to her friends and colleagues, and no one ever believed that someone so smart and charming could have the kinds of problems she had. _I_ didn’t believe it, and I was living it. I thought that I was just being selfish. She said that a lot, that I was selfish and arrogant, and that was why no one liked me. Eventually she destroyed a bunch of my belongings and threw me out of the house. She ordered me to come back the next day, but I had already gone to stay with a friend. So then I was seventeen and living off the charity of friends’ parents.”

Crowley is quiet. Aziraphale would have spoken up a half-dozen times over by now, expressing his shock and sorrow. But Crowley knows how suddenly someone can turn on those they claim to love, how quickly some can cast their children out. 

After a moment, Yael continues. “Even after that, I spent several more years convinced that I shouldn’t have abandoned her. I stayed in touch, visited, tried to make amends. It took a long time before I looked back at my childhood and realized that my mother had never been a good parent to me, that there were dozens of small cruelties scattered throughout. And yet, I still find myself making excuses for her. I mean, there are worse parents out there—look at Lori’s. At least my mother wasn’t violent. Not that violent, anyway. Well, not that often. At least not until things got really bad.” She makes a face. “You see? Naomi hates it when I do that. She’s so mad on my behalf, even when I can’t be. It’s one of the many reasons I’m so grateful to have her.”

Crowley looks at her, slowly realizing that this story isn’t about him after all. “I see.”

Yael smiles at him. “I think you do. Of course, I could be completely off-base. But you learn to recognize patterns, sometimes.”

He nods, but doesn’t say anything.

“Anyway, give it some time.”

“I’ve given it six thousand years! Er, figuratively speaking.”

She shrugs. “Then you’ll have to decide if it’s something you can live with.”

Crowley’s sigh is heavy with exhaustion. But then he smiles. “Eh, what’s another six thousand years?”

“Figuratively speaking?”

“Yeah.”

They sit in silence for a few more minutes, until Naomi emerges from the guest room, a chastened and thoughtful-looking Aziraphale in tow. Yael rises and heads upstairs.

When she leaves, Naomi puts her hands on her hips. “Why don’t you two go down to the park?”

*****

They don’t speak to each other until they’re at the pond, tossing pieces of bread to the ducks.

“D’you think they’re expecting us to apologize to each other?”

“I think,” says Aziraphale carefully, “that Naomi at least has many expectations. But I _am_ sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

There’s another long silence, broken only by excited quacking as more bread hits the water.

“Do you really want to go back to the way things were before?” asks Crowley.

“Not particularly. I’m rather enjoying this new freedom. But…” he sighs. “I am fairly certain that we did the right thing. And I still believe that we’re following the ineffable plan, and I’m…hopeful, at least, that the ineffable plan is good. That all this is for the best.”

Crowley wants to bring up the flood, the plagues, all the deaths of countless children. But Aziraphale knows already. He was there. They were both there.

“For what it’s worth, _I_ think we’re doing the right thing. Much as it pains me to say so.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Thank you. Your opinion is valuable to me.” He reaches out and takes Crowley’s hand. “I am glad we’re on the same side now, truly. I’m glad to be here, on Earth, with you. My regret is that the others don’t understand or value this world. I don’t regret siding with you.”

He doesn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand, but he turns and stares at the angel.

“Why _aren’t_ you more angry with them, anyway? They haven’t exactly treated you well. Even before they tried to kill you.”

Aziraphale gives a little shrug. “They failed. We’re still here, the world is still here. Perhaps we’ve even made them question things a bit, wonder whether they’re really so sure of the ineffable plan.” He looks just the slightest bit smug.

“Hah! You are a bastard.”

“Just enough to be worth liking, I’m told.” _Very_ smug.

That’s enough, for now. Mostly, anyway.

“ _I’m_ still angry, you know. Not at you, but at” he waves his free hand at the sky.

“I know. I think I understand why.”

“I’m probably going to yell about it sometimes.”

“I’ll try not to take it personally.”

“You should take it personally, I’m angry on your behalf.”

“I do appreciate it, you know. That you care.”

“Course I care. We’ve been friends for six thousand years.”

He wishes that they could understand each other a little better. But there’s time. As long as the world is still here, there’s time.

*****

When they return, Naomi looks relieved. “Did you work things out? Good. I’m glad you’re okay, and also that you’re back in time for breakfast. We didn’t want to start without you, but I’m hungry.”

They go back to the roof, where Yael is holding a bundle of plants and some kind of citrus fruit. She waves them around and sings yet another blessing—Crowley’s a little worried that the sukkot is going to become too holy for him, but it doesn’t burn when he enters.

“Poppy or sesame?” asks Naomi.

“Uh, poppy?” She hands him half of a toasted bagel coated in poppy seeds.

“There’s cream cheese and all the fixings over there.” Naomi gestures towards a platter currently resting in front of Aziraphale. The angel’s bagel is piled high with cream cheese, salmon, tomato, and onion, and he’s gazing at it with an expression of pure rapture.

“So are you guys flying back tomorrow?” Naomi asks. “Not that we’re not thrilled to have you, but I don’t want you missing your flight.”

“Actually,” says Aziraphale, “I’m afraid we must leave today. I’m expecting a delivery tomorrow evening, and I don’t want to risk missing it.”

“When’s your flight?” asks Yael. Aziraphale looks at Crowley. Neither of them has ever needed to buy a ticket in advance.

“I think it’s around six or seven.” says Crowley. There will probably be a flight to London around then.

Neither Naomi nor Yael will be home most of the day, so they say their goodbyes after breakfast.

“I don’t suppose we can convince you to come back for Chanukah?” asks Yael. “It starts in late December this year.” 

“I’ll teach you how to make sufganiyot!” adds Naomi, smiling at Aziraphale.

Yael looks heavenward. “And perhaps Crowley will teach me how to get jam off the ceiling.”

“And nutella!”

Yael shakes her head.

After they leave, Aziraphale and Crowley manage to waste several hours doing absolutely nothing. Finally, Aziraphale sighs.

“As reluctant as I am to face the rigors of air travel, I suppose we really should be going.”

“You know,” says Crowley, “there is an easier way to get home.”

“No, thank you.”

“It’s much faster than air travel.”

“I’m not traveling through telephone wires, Crowley.”

“It’s actually mostly wireless signals these days.”

“That doesn’t help, you know.”

“We won’t have to go through LaGuardia…”

The angel starts to waver.

“Or Heathrow. No airports at all. You could be back in your bookshop in under an hour.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Fine. I will try it this once. Where is the telephone?”

“Oh. Uh…” Crowley thinks for a moment. He doesn’t want to leave his mobile behind, but he realizes he hasn’t seen any landline in the brownstone. “We’ll have to find a public phone.”

It takes half an hour to find one, Brooklyn being oddly devoid of such things. Aziraphale nearly changes his mind twice during the search, but Crowley is determined. When they finally do find a phone booth, he grasps Aziraphale’s wrist. “Just follow me, and don’t let go. You could end up anywhere.”

The angel gives him a nervous smile and wraps his fingers securely around Crowley’s wrist. “I have no intention of letting go.”

“Hope this isn’t too fast for you.”

“Oh for—“ and then they’re off.

It takes maybe a second to connect to Crowley’s landline, and then they’re safely in his study. Crowley grins.

“Fun, isn’t it?” Aziraphale is pale, his eyes closed, his fingers digging into Crowley’s forearm. “Aaaangel. We’re here. It’s over.”

The angel opens his eyes, looks around, and sags with relief. “I am never doing that again.”

“Oh come on, was it really that bad?”

“Yes.”

Crowley sighs. “Well, can I make you some tea before I take you home?”

“Cocoa, if you have it.”

“I do now.”

The angel sits on Crowley’s immaculately modern sofa and sips his cocoa. “I suppose I should go open the shop now.” He doesn’t sound excited.

Crowley checks his watch. It’s 3:43 PM in New York, 8:43 in London. As always, the time in another city is Too Late. Crowley isn’t entirely sure why he still includes that location on his watch. Perhaps it’s for the reminder: as long as he’s up here, there’s still time.

“You do realize it’s almost nine in the evening, yes? A bit late to be opening up the shop.”

“Is it really? My, that _was_ fast.”

“I did say.”

Aziraphale quietly finishes his chocolate. “Even if it isn’t time to open the shop, I shouldn’t impose on you any longer.”

“You’re always welcome here. But I can give you lift home now if you’re ready.”

As they both climb into the Bentley, Crowley has an idea. “Hey, I’m in the mood for a bit of a drive. You could come along, if you want. Unless you need to get home.”

“I’m sure the shop can wait.”

It takes a while to get away from the brightness of the city. They’re both silent on the drive. Aziraphale doesn’t ask where they’re going, which is good, because Crowley doesn’t know. Eventually they reach a park, and he decides this is as good a destination as any.

“This is lovely,” says Aziraphale. “If only I’d thought to bring a picnic.”

He does have a tartan blanket, somehow, which he spreads under a tree. “Shall we sit for a while? It’s nice to be somewhere this peaceful.”

Crowley joins him on the blanket, and they sit companionably, shoulder to shoulder, leaning back against the trunk. Many of the trees are just beginning to turn red and gold, but this one has gotten a head start and dropped most of its leaves already.

Aziraphale sighs. “There is something I’d like to talk with you about…” he trails off hesitantly. Crowley groans.

“Can’t it wait? I’ve had enough serious conversations to last me a decade. Or at least the next few months.”

The angel relaxes. Crowley can’t tell whether it’s from disappointment or relief. “I can wait as long as you need.” He points toward the sky. “Look, it’s Sagittarius. Were those yours as well?”

Crowley nods. “Sagittarius, Carina, the whole arm.”

“You did a wonderful job. I’m particularly fond of the part that looks like a teapot. But they’re all beautiful.” With a contented sigh, Aziraphale rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder and admires the constellations Crowley made.

It isn’t a perfect moment. There will never be a perfect moment for him. That’s the curse laid upon fallen angels, to have felt the perfection of the divine, and to live forever with the knowledge that they never will again. But Crowley also knows that he can be happy without it. Nothing he loves is perfect. And right now, looking up through the branches, he can see the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for my promise of shorter chapters. Sorry about that. The next ones really will be shorter! And perhaps a bit fluffier. But it may take a little longer to write them, because (appropriately enough), the High Holy Days start next week. 
> 
> This chapter brought to you by my own (sadly unrequited) craving for sabich, and my complicated and problematic affection for Georgette Heyer novels. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed!


	7. Because You Exist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanatory notes and a latke recipe can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/264684343).

“ _Really_ , Crowley?” asks Aziraphale. “Another air traffic control strike? Didn’t you already do that in the spring?”

“That wasn’t a strike, that was just a series of unlikely coincidences. _This_ was organized.”

“But why?”

“Have you seen the hours they work? It’s ridiculous! I barely even had to do anything, just drop a few hints about how they deserve better working conditions. They probably would have it done it on their own—you know humans.”

Aziraphale smiles ruefully. “I suppose I should be glad that you’re helping people.”

“Oh, don’t start. I’m just in it for the mayhem.” There was a lot of mayhem. Other airport workers were talking about joining the strike. Airports around the world were frantically rerouting their flights. If he still bothered to write reports, he’d point out all the frustration and anger that was tarnishing souls. He’d carefully not mention the acts of solidarity and support that were also emerging from the chaos. That was the thing about people. You let a little butterfly of chaos into their midst, watch the air currents swirl them about, and in the end, it all sort of evened out. Cruelty and loving kindness in equal measure. After six thousand years, humans could still baffle and amaze him.

Aziraphale interrupts his reflections. “While you were planning this mayhem, did you remember that we were supposed to be going to New York today?”

“Wasn’t that next week?”

“I’m afraid not. It apparently starts at sundown tonight. All their holidays do, apparently. I'd forgotten that, after all these years, but then I was reminded when I looked it up. And I would like to be there for the first night.”

Crowley grins. “Good thing we have an alternate mode of transportation.”

*****

It takes some time to convince Aziraphale to travel through the phone signals again, but eventually he accepts that there really is no alternative. But after Crowley gets Aziraphale to agree, they realize that they don’t actually have a destination phone. They could hardly appear out of Naomi or Yael’s mobile. (Crowley considers it, but he knows Aziraphale won’t. And anyway, he’s been rather enjoying the experience of spending time with humans who seem to actively like him, and the phone thing might ruin that.)

Crowley offers several suggestions, but Aziraphale rejects each one out of hand, either for practical reasons (“We don’t know that number, Crowley”) or moral ones (“I’m not going to terrify some random bakery worker, Crowley.”)

Finally, he has an idea. “What about Naomi’s workplace? It’s probably mostly empty for the holiday.”

Aziraphale considers this. “Naomi might still be in her office. The holiday doesn’t start until sundown, after all.”

“What about someone else’s office, then? They’re professors, how much time do they really spend working?”

“Hmm… but how would we get the number?”

“We’ll just dial Naomi’s work number and change the last digit. They probably assign phone numbers based on office numbers or something.”

“Yes, that would be the sensible thing to do.” As Aziraphale says that, Crowley remembers that humans never do the sensible thing, and feels a bone-deep certainty that phone numbers do not in fact work like that. But the number will probably get them somewhere on campus, and they can figure out the rest when they get there.

Crowley lifts the earpiece of Aziraphale’s rotary phone off its base and prepares to dial the number. Aziraphale takes the wrist of his other hand in a vise-like grip. Crowley pauses before dialing.

“I could teach you how to do this on your own. It’s not that frightening.”

“I would prefer to let you navigate the both of us.” He gives Crowley a soft smile. “I trust you to get me there safely.”

“That’s not what you say every time you ride in my car.”

Aziraphale doesn’t rise to the bait.

“You’ve never failed to keep me safe, despite some trying circumstances. I can’t say the same for anyone else, angel or demon.” The angel is still smiling at him, though his eyes flick away and back towards Crowley. That familiar mixture of hope and longing bubbles up, leavened with a generous dose of irritation at both of them. Six thousand years, and Aziraphale is still smiling like that, and Crowley is still unable to do anything in response, except try and elicit the smile again. 

Frustration and awkwardness makes him sound a bit snappish when he asks, “Is there anything you want to bring with you? Better get it now.”

“Oh! The gifts!” The angel lets go of him to go retrieve a leather case from the back of his shop. Crowley raises an eyebrow. “You’re giving away books?”

“I do occasionally let a book go, you know.” Crowley’s skepticism must be clear, because Aziraphale protests. “I do! Sometimes I’ll even sell several books in the span of a week. Not when I can help it, of course, but it does happen. Anyway, both of these are books I acquired for the express purpose of giving away. I already have copies of my own.”

“Hah, that’s more like you. I was worried for a moment.” Crowley slings his own bag over his shoulder. Aziraphale’s eyes dart towards it.

“Oh, are you bringing gifts as well?”

“They’re _not_ gifts. They’re just…objects I’m discarding. At Yael and Naomi’s. Demons don’t give gifts.”

“You brought me pain au chocolat just this morning! What was that, if not a gift?”

It had been a completely selfish act, entirely justified by the delight on the angel’s face when he saw the bakery bag, and the way his eyes had closed as he inhaled the scent of freshly baked pastry, and the happy noises he made biting into the treat. But Crowley can’t say that.

“That’s just food. And it’s different, with you. It’s just part of the Arrangement.”

“I wasn’t aware that the Arrangement was still in force, or that it included baked goods. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.” Aziraphale’s eyes close, and he gives a happy sigh. “It was truly delectable.”

To keep off the subject of gifts, Crowley asks, “can we go now?” and grabs Aziraphale’s wrist.

“What? Oh! Yes, let’s.”

“Remember, don’t let go.”

He dials, hears the call connect, and they vanish into data.

A moment later, Crowley grins at Aziraphale, who has managed to keep his eyes open this time.

“See, it’s not so bad!”

“What are you doing in my office?” The speaker is a middle-aged man with an irritated expression. He gestures to a young woman sitting across from his desk. “I’m in a meeting!”

“I’m sorry, we’re looking for Professor Lipsky’s office,” says Aziraphale.

“She’s in 406. You’re not even on the right floor!”

“So much for the sensible thing,” Aziraphale mutters. The young woman stands up.

“I’ll show you where it is. We were just wrapping up anyway.” She quickly walks out of the office before the professor can protest.

As soon as she closes the door behind her, she relaxes. “That was convenient timing! Let’s go, it’s right this way.”

Naomi seems happy to see them, if a bit confused. “When did you two get here? Actually, hang on a second—Leya, did you need anything?”

“Nope, I was just showing them where your office is. They showed up in Professor Zimmerman’s office looking for you.”

Naomi puts her hand over her mouth, as if to hold in a laugh. “Did you two get lost?”

“Just had the wrong number,” says Crowley.

“Thanks for helping them out,” Naomi says to Leya.

“Oh, they helped me out, too. I’d been trying to escape from Zimmerman’s office for a good twenty minutes.”

Naomi’s eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me he—“

“No, no!” says Leya quickly. “He’s not that kind of creep. He just needs someone to cover his intro class next semester, and no one wants to teach for him because he’s, well…”

“He’s a pompous blowhard.” says Naomi. “Anyway, don’t you have a dissertation completion fellowship this year?”

“I kept trying to tell him that, but he wasn’t listening. Kept going on about what an opportunity this would be for me.” She turns to smile at Aziraphale and Crowley. “You can see why I was grateful for the interruption. Even if you did scare me half to death—I didn’t even hear the door when you came in!”

There’s a brief pause, then Aziraphale says, “I do apologize for startling you. We were most grateful for your escort.” Leya grins.

“When you put it that way, I feel much more important. Anyway, it was nice to meet you both. See you tomorrow, Naomi?”

“Possibly, though I’ll only be by to collect final papers. But do feel free to send me any dissertation chapters you’d like feedback on.”

“I will! Speaking of which, I should get back to that. Nice to meet you both! Happy Chanukah!” With a wave, she departs.

Naomi slowly rises from her chair. “Shall we go?”

Crowley notices that she’s grown rounder, and her movements are a little slower. He and Aziraphale exchange worried glances.

“Will you be all right? With the, um…” Aziraphale gestures in no particular direction. Naomi’s mouth twists in amusement.

“Don’t worry, we’re both perfectly healthy, according to my doctor. Have you guys not had any pregnant friends before?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’ve only known one woman who was, ah, expecting. And her circumstances were rather unique.” For one thing, she had been the first ever to go through the process. “Crowley has been to a birthing hospital, though.”

Crowley waves a dismissive hand. “That was just to deliver a baby.” Seeing Naomi’s eyes go wide, he corrects himself. “Not like that! I was just transporting him!” That doesn’t seem to help. “It was my job. I was bringing him to his parents. There was some, er, confusion at the hospital. It was a strange night.”

Naomi’s look of surprise has been replaced with a look that is equal parts thoughtful and amused. It’s one Crowley has seen on her face a number of times. She shakes her head. “You two have had some interesting jobs.”

*****

Outside it’s quite cold, with piles of dirty snow alongside the sidewalk and an icy wind that makes Crowley shiver. He wishes he could crawl inside the angel’s coat and soak up his warmth. This body isn’t truly ectothermic, but he still hates the cold.

Aziraphale gives him a concerned look and moves closer. He hums a bit and starts to give off a small amount of warmth, just enough that Crowley can feel it when their arms brush. The angel then takes off his scarf and wraps it around Crowley’s neck, whispering as he does so, “It’s just a tiny miracle, they won’t notice.” The scarf gives off its own gentle heat, and better yet, smells like Aziraphale. The tartan doesn’t exactly go with his look, but he doesn’t mind.

Naomi watches the entire exchange with a small speculative smile, but says nothing.

The subway station is hot and crowded and there’s dirty slush puddling across the floor, but Crowley’s in a better mood than usual. It’s warm, and the scarf is blocking out the station’s usual smell. The trains are packed, but they’re able to squeeze on, and a teenage boy sees Naomi and immediately gives up his seat. Crowley and Aziraphale exchange glances and minute head shakes. If there was a miracle there, it was entirely human.

As they exit the subway, Naomi says, “I’m not complaining, but weren’t you two supposed to arrive tomorrow?”

“Were we?” asks Aziraphale in genuine puzzlement.

“Don’t look at me, angel, I don’t make the travel plans.”

“The holiday does start tonight, yes? I double-checked.”

“Tonight is the first night of Chanukah, but you said you were coming on the first day. I guess I just assumed.”

Crowley grins at Aziraphale’s consternation. “And you were so proud of yourself for remembering that their holidays start at sundown.” Aziraphale sighs.

“It’s not a problem!” says Naomi. “It’s great to have an extra day with you guys. Plus you’ll have more time to get over your jet lag before the party.” There’s an odd smile on her face, like she’s remembering a joke.

“Ah yes,” says Aziraphale, nodding in an unconvincing display of comprehension. “Jet lag.”

At the brownstone, Yael is too busy frying chicken to greet them properly, but she shouts a hello from the kitchen, and it’s not long before she calls in Aziraphale and Crowley to help her carry food to the table. Before they sit down to eat, Yael takes out a candelabra and places candles in two of its nine arms.

“Is that a menorah?” asks Aziraphale. “I haven’t seen once since the Se—well, in quite a long time. But this one appears to have more arms than the last one I saw.”

“It’s a chanukiah,” Yael explains. “A special kind of menorah to celebrate the miracle of Chanukah.” She takes out a box of matches. “Sweetheart, do you want to do the honors tonight?”

Naomi, already sitting, shakes her head. “Go ahead, I’m too tired to stand up right now.”

Yael nods. She sings three blessings praising Adonai. The first is for commanding them to light the candles, the next in gratitude for the miracles, and the third is one Crowley remembers her singing before. He’s not entirely sure why God needs to be praised for making people light candles—if anything, She should be praising people for doing what She asked. He adds this to his new list of questions for Her, not that he’ll ever get the chance to ask them.

After singing, Yael lights the center candle, then uses it to light the one on the far right. She carefully carries it over to a window.

“Aren’t you worried about fire?” asks Crowley. He certainly is.

“It should be fine. It’s a very sturdy menorah,” says Yael.

“Plus we have a fire extinguisher right here,” adds Naomi.

Crowley tries to be reassured, but he jumps at every flicker of the candles. When Yael notices, she gets up and moves a small metal table next to the window, placing the menorah on it.

“There, now even if it does get knocked over, it won’t burn anything.”

Crowley doesn’t thank her—demons don’t give thanks—but he does relax. Aziraphale gives her a grateful smile.

*****

“So,” Naomi says, “Should we get out the air mattress?” 

“That would be most appreciated,” says Aziraphale.

While Yael is retrieving it, Naomi says, “By the way, we’re going to have to shuffle sleeping arrangements around a bit tomorrow night. My parents are staying here, and they really need the fold-out couch. So we’ll put the air mattress in my study for that night. Zira, do you mind sleeping in the living room again?”

“Actually, I’ll share the air mattress.” He turns to Crowley, “At least, if you don’t mind.”

It won’t be the first time they’ve shared a bed, but something about the angel’s hopeful expression makes his breath short.

“Ngk.” Crowley tries again. “Nah. ‘Sfine.”

Naomi rolls her eyes heavenward. “You two—“ she stops as Yael comes down the stairs. “Well, never mind.”

“Actually, before we all retire, there was one thing…” says Aziraphale.

Naomi tilts her head. “Can I sit down while we discuss it?”

“Oh yes, that’s probably best.”

“Should I be nervous?” she asks Crowley. He shrugs, not sure what the angel is on about.

Once they are all seated in the living room, Aziraphale says, “So, as you know, I’ve been reading about this holiday, and I saw that gifts are traditional.”

“Only sort of,” says Yael. “As far as I know, it’s mostly an American thing, because the holiday is so close to Christmas. Jewish kids saw their classmates getting Christmas presents and started to wonder where theirs were. Chanukah isn’t even an important holiday, it’s just the one most Americans know about because of the Christmas thing.”

Aziraphale looks crestfallen, and Naomi hastens to add, “But it’s still become a tradition here to give gifts. And in fact, we got presents for both of you!”

Yael nods, and retrieves several small parcels from the coat closet. She hands them the first two, wrapped in blue paper with white stars. “These are from me.”

Aziraphale’s is a hat in cream and forest green. “I can’t manage tartan,” Yael explains, “but I thought it would go well with it.”

The angel’s eyes are wide. “You made this yourself?” She nods. “It’s delightful. I am touched, truly.” He looks at the gift with utter delight on his face, and Crowley rolls his eyes behind his glasses. It’s just a hat.

His present is a pair of fingerless gloves and a scarf, all in black. “You get cold so easily,” Yael says. “I used a cashmere blend, so it should be very warm.”

Crowley is not touched in the slightest. Stupid humans observing something blindingly obvious and expecting gratitude. Just because she made something with her own hands to help him is no reason to feel even the slightest bit emotional. He was bound to get a gift from a human eventually, after all. You can’t be on earth for over six thousand years without something like this happening. He’s a demon, and he doesn’t feel gratitude.

It’s probably for the best that Yael doesn’t seem to need a response, because his throat isn’t cooperating.

The gloves are very soft and fit like, well.

“My turn!” says Naomi. She brings out two rectangular packages, wrapped in extremely gaudy paper covered in stars, menorahs, and four-sided tops. “Spoiler alert: they’re books.”

“Naomi always gives books,” says Yael.

Aziraphale’s parcel does indeed contain books: a scholarly monograph on musical theater and a book of Jewish folktales. He is delighted by both.

The top book of Crowley’s is a novel. “You’ll like it,” says Naomi. “It’s full of love triangles and ridiculous misunderstandings.” Clearly she had been paying attention to their conversation while painting the sukkah. More than Crowley had been, anyway. He mostly just remembers that she likes gardening and whales. The second book is called _Wildflowers of New York_ , and consists mostly of beautiful close-up photographs of plants.

Crowley looks down, avoiding eye contact. “I ssupposse—” he clears his throat and brings the hiss back under control. “I suppose I should say thank you,” he says.

“Not if it’s difficult!” says Naomi cheerfully. “It was fun just to pick them out!”

“Speaking of giving…” Aziraphale retrieves the satchel he’d brought from London. “I hope it’s all right that I didn’t wrap them,” he says, pulling out two boxes.

Naomi looks at hers. “This looks suspiciously like the archival storage boxes they use for rare books,” she says, slowly unfolding it. When she sees what’s inside, she freezes.

“What is it, sweet?” asks Yael. Naomi very carefully passes the box to her wife, who looks inside. “Oh.”

“It’s a seventeenth-century commentary on the Mishneh Torah,” Naomi says, completely unnecessarily. “This must be over three hundred years old.”

“Three hundred and forty-one, to be precise,” says Aziraphale. “And it’s only volume eight, I’m afraid.”

“Zira, I can’t accept this.”

Aziraphale looks hurt. “Why not? You don’t like it?”

“Of course I like it! But it’s too much. We were just exchanging small gifts, like scarves and books.”

“This is a book.”

“It’s a rare book that’s probably worth over a thousand dollars!”

“Only at retail price. I’ve become quite good at finding shockingly underpriced books in all sorts of places over the years.”

“Yes, but…” Naomi bites her lip. Crowley, perfectly attuned to human desires, can tell how much she wants to keep the gift, and how hard she’s fighting not to. It’s a perfect example of how humans make things harder for themselves. Naomi wants the book, Aziraphale wants to give her the book, and yet she’s doing her best not to accept it because humans can’t ever let things be easy. Crowley is going to have to intervene.

“You know, I seem to recall during our last visit that you had some kind of new year resolution…what was it again? Something about trying to accept kindness in whatever form was natural to the giver, wasn’t that it?” 

“He’s got you there, love,” says Yael.

“This really is a natural gift for me,” adds Aziraphale. “I run a rare book shop, after all. It was part of a lot I purchased at an estate sale, and I knew you would give it a proper home.”

Naomi sighs. “You win. Thank you. I mean it—this is amazing. But please next year just stick to small things.”

“I will,” Aziraphale promises.

Yael is much calmer when she sees her gift, an 1833 edition of _Pride and Prejudice_.

“It’s not a first edition, I’m afraid, but it is a very early one,” says Aziraphale. “I would have brought you a Georgette Heyer book, but I was concerned that Naomi would disapprove. So I picked another Regency story.”

Yael smiles. “Since we’ve already hashed out the issue of proportionality with Naomi’s gift, I’ll just say thank you. It’s a wonderful gift.”

“You’re very welcome. And now, let’s give Crowley a turn.”

“You brought gifts too?” asks Naomi.

“I did _not,_ ” replies Crowley. “These are not gifts. I don’t give gifts. _This_ ,” he hands a stack of cassettes to Yael, “is just some rubbish. I don’t have a tape player anymore, so I was going to toss them.”

Yael flips through the tapes. “Are these all bootleg concert recordings? Marianne Faithful, Velvet Underground…wait, is this a Queen bootleg? From 1971?”

Naomi leans over to look. “I didn’t even know Queen existed that early.”

“And I know this one isn’t on the internet…most of these are from before the artists became popular. Who was recording them? How on earth did you get these?”

He shrugs. “I know people who spent a lot of time in London nightclubs in the ‘60s and ‘70s. There was a guy who used to record the entertainers, if he liked them.” Crowley had amassed quite a collection of tapes that way. Since he usually remembered to keep them out of the car, he still had many of them.

“Oh yes, I think I remember him,” says Aziraphale with a fond smile. “Seemed like a dangerous fellow. Didn’t he hire some people to rob a church?”

A rush of memory hits him and he looks away for a moment. “Something like that.”

Yael mercifully breaks the moment, saying, “Okay, it’s not a gift, but still, thank you. It’s a kind thing to do, and I can’t wait to listen to them. These aren’t just music, they’re history!”

“Nah, you’re doing me a favor, taking them off my hands. And speaking of taking rubbish off my hands…” he pulls a small potted azalea out of the bag and plops it in front of Naomi.

“This is also not a gift. _This_ is a failure, a complete and utter embarrassment of a plant. I should just chuck it in the garbage disposal. I was going to, in fact, but then I figured I’d bring it along and dump it on you.”

Naomi picks up the pot. “It looks like a perfectly healthy azalea to me.”

“Healthy? Look at the spots on those leaves. It barely bloomed last spring, either. I had to get rid of it—can’t have it setting a bad example.” 

Naomi is ignoring him in favor of talking to the azalea. “I’m sorry he said such mean things to you. I think you’re fine the way you are, and you’ll do great in my study.” Crowley shakes his head, and she looks at him reprovingly. “Plants deserve love too, you know. You shouldn’t be so mean to them. This one probably just needs some care and a good shady spot.”

The little azalea is looking better already, possibly just from sheer relief. Crowley does feel a twinge of guilt, but he suppresses it almost instantly.

“I’m not even sure I should thank you after all the things you just said about my azalea. But I will anyway. Thank you, Crowley.”

He waves her words away with a hand, and everyone collects their gifts—or non-gifts—before going to bed.

Upstairs, Aziraphale carefully places his new books in his satchel. “Do you want me to take yours as well?”

“Nah, I’ll keep them in my bag.” Aziraphale frowns, probably thinking of the bits of potting soil and fallen leaves in the bag, but doesn’t protest. The air mattress inflates and floats up to bed height, and the angel sits on it. “I think I may have overdone it a tad with the gifts.”

“You think?”

“Thank you for convincing Naomi to accept hers.”

“Hey, I’m a demon, tempting is what I do.”

Aziraphale straightens up. “I didn’t notice you using your powers—you wouldn’t, would you? Not on a friend.”

Crowley lets himself smile a wide serpent grin. “Angel. I never have to use my powers. I just have to know what people want, and tell them to go ahead and take it.”

“I’m not surprised,” says Aziraphale softly. He leans toward Crowley. “You can be very persuasive.” There’s something intent in his gaze that draws Crowley towards him until the demon turns his head, afraid of what his face might give away. Aziraphale sighs and leans back.

“You should probably go to sleep, my dear.”

*****

He’s awakened the following morning by a gentle tapping at the door. He blearily watches as Aziraphale, still fully awake and dressed, quickly makes the air mattress deflate and sink back to the floor.

Naomi opens the door. “I’m going to campus to pick up my students’ final papers. Do either of you want to come?”

“I will,” says Aziraphale. “I’d like to pick up a few things as well. Crowley?”

As much as he still worries about Aziraphale, he knows that he needs to trust that the angel can take care of himself. Also, it’s warm under the blankets, and cold outside.

“Mmmff.”

“I think that’s a no,” says Naomi. Aziraphale takes the blanket off the deflated air mattress and lays it on top of Crowley, tucking it in around him. “Rest well.”

From his blanket nest, Crowley can’t see whatever makes Aziraphale say “I know, I know,” in a resigned voice as the door closes. Nor does he hear any reply that Naomi might make. The bed is very warm, and he wants to nap.

Aziraphale and Naomi return while he’s still sleeping, and by the time he wakes up enough to go downstairs in search of them, they’re busy doing something that involves sizzling oil, a lot of flour, and a long-nosed pastry decorating bag.

“Crowley! We’re making sufganiyot!”

“Are those some sort of pastry explosives?” he asks, eyeing the blast zone of dough bits and sticky red jam.

“No, I got carried away trying to fill that one.” Aziraphale looks very slightly abashed, but then brightens. “But I managed to fill the rest of them without mishap.”

“They’re a kind of doughnut,” Naomi says. “Yael likes them, so I learned to make them. Try one!”

He’d decline, but Aziraphale is looking so hopeful. And it’s not bad—a fluffy orange-scented pastry with a lemony filling and dusted with sugar. “I thought they were strawberry,” he says, gesturing to the sticky red carnage.

“We’re making three flavors: strawberry, lemon curd, and nutella.”

“Do I smell sufganiyot?” calls Yael as she walks in the door.

“Just in time, sweet! We just finished a fresh batch.”

Yael grabs one of the strawberry ones and takes a bite, eyes closing as she happily sighs. “Oh, these are heavenly.”

“They should be,” says Aziraphale. “I worked hard on them.”

“And you did a great job. Did you know,” she asks as she reaches for one of the chocolate ones, “there’s an Israeli folktale that Adam and Eve were given sufganiyot to cheer them up after being expelled from the Garden of Eden?”

There’s a brief, stunned silence.

“I don’t recall that, no,” says Aziraphale. “It would have been a nice thing to do, though. Perhaps not as useful a gift as a flaming sword, but nicer. Certainly tastier.”

Naomi tilts her head to one side. “Flaming sword? …Oh! From your misprinted bible! I remember that from your conference talk.” She laughs.

“That assumes that the angel wouldn’t eat them all himself,” says Crowley.

“Well, could you blame him if he did?” asks Yael, reaching for a third. 

It turns out that the doughnuts are only one of the foods being prepared in an increasingly messy kitchen. There’s beef slowly cooking in the oven, and Naomi drafts Crowley and Aziraphale to peel and grate potatoes for another dish. As with the sukkah, they take turns distracting her and performing minor miracles, so she ends up with a large bowlful of grated potatoes in short order.

“You realize,” she tells them, “that you’ve just signed yourselves up for potato duty every year. You’re faster than I can manage even with a food processor.”

Crowley shrugs. “Who says we’ll be back next year?”

Naomi looks at him, wide-eyed and sad. “Oh. Um, I guess you’re right. I shouldn’t have assumed. I mean, I _hope_ you’ll come back…”

Aziraphale just looks at him reprovingly.

Crowley feels bad, then irritated at himself for feeling bad. It’s their fault for having expectations of him in the first place. But now Naomi’s trying hard to look cheerful again, and somehow that’s even worse. He gives an airy wave of his hand.

“Oh for…I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sure we’ll be here, if only so that Zira can eat more of your doughnuts.”

Naomi’s smile starts to look a little more genuine, but then she gives him a searching look. Crowley’s glad she can’t see through his glasses.

“You know,” she says, “We love having you—both of you! But don’t let us pressure you into visiting if you’re not comfortable.”

He looks over at Aziraphale, who initially seems inclined to leave Crowley in the hole he’s dug for himself. Bastard.

“I don’t mind visiting! I’m not being pressured!” 

Finally, Aziraphale intervenes.

“Crowley and I both enjoy our visits very much. Now,” the angel smiles and changes the subject. “What do we do with all these grated potatoes?”

*****

Naomi’s parents arrive an hour before the party is supposed to start. Rabbi Harry Lipsky is a slight man, barely a centimeter taller than his daughter and whipcord thin, yet somehow capable of a deep booming laugh that Crowley suspects can be heard in the house across the street. Dr. Deborah Lipsky is Naomi’s height and rather stout, and despite her soft voice, she gives off the same force of personality as her husband. Crowley looks over at Aziraphale, who seems similarly taken aback.

Before Crowley has a chance to react, Harry has enthusiastically shaken his hand and Deborah has kissed him on each cheek. Aziraphale gets the same treatment.

“So you’re the young couple Naomi has told us so much about,” says Deborah. “It’s lovely to finally meet you both.”

“Erm.” Crowley looks at Aziraphale, but help comes from Naomi.

“ _Mother._ ”

Deborah’s face looks perfectly innocent. “Oh dear, was I mistaken? After what Naomi said, and then seeing you standing together like that, I just assumed. I’m very sorry.”

“No offense taken, dear lady,” says Aziraphale. Before any awkwardness can deepen, Harry says, “So, Zira, I hear you’re quite the scholar…” and draws him away. Deborah smiles at Crowley.

“I _am_ sorry to have embarrassed you. I hope you can forgive me—especially as I was very much hoping you’d be willing to talk about gardening with me.”

That, Crowley is perfectly happy to do, especially with Naomi involved. Out of either pity or a desire not to further encourage her mother’s misunderstanding, Naomi helps steer the conversation away from anything personal, and the three of them end up having a very enjoyable discussion about shade-grown perennials that ends only when Lori and Mirka arrive.

“Mirka!” cries Harry when the door opens, jumping up from the chair to throw his arms around her. The two of them start chattering away in a language Crowley hasn’t heard in several decades.

“Yiddish?” he asks Naomi.

“Yup! It’s my dad’s native language. It’s one reason he likes Mirka so much—the only other people he can speak it with are the other old men who go to the same deli, and he’s always feuding with one or another of them.”

“You don’t speak it?” Just listening, Crowley can start to feel his comprehension coming back. He’s very rusty, but he’s still quite fluent in German and Hebrew—albeit very old Hebrew—and that gets him halfway to comprehension all on its own. And he’s always been good at languages.

“Not very well. I spoke it as a small child with him and my grandparents, but I never got past a five year-old’s vocabulary, and I always mixed it up with English. But Mirka grew up speaking it—I don’t think she really spoke English until middle school.”

“High school!” says Mirka. She’s extricated herself from her conversation with Harry long enough to exchange cheek kisses with Deborah. “And it wasn’t until I left home for college that I actually had to use it outside of class. It was a rough transition, that first year.”

“The perils of growing up ultra-Orthodox,” says Lori. Mirka smiles and shrugs.

“In my community, anyway. But it just seemed normal to me—well, parts of it. It was hard to leave, even if it ended up being good for me. But, as you like to point out, I’m very lucky to have a family that accepts me regardless. And a second family, with you guys.”

Everyone but Crowley is smiling warmly at her and each other. Even Aziraphale has joined in. It makes Crowley feel twitchy and nervous, especially because they’re including him in their warmth, and he worries that this is just a new and exciting way for him to fuck up.

“Speaking of family…” says Deborah, going over to her suitcase.

“Presents!” says Mirka.

“Is it socks?” asks Lori. “I hope it’s socks.”

Deborah returns with a paper bag, and starts distributing small parcels. “It is indeed socks,” she says.

“Yay!” Lori sounds genuinely delighted, with none of the sardonic edge that their voice usually has.

Their new socks are the same bright red as their glasses. Mirka’s have fish on them, which makes her groan theatrically at what is clearly an inside joke. Yael gets padded hiking socks striped with purple and green, and Naomi gets a pair too thick and fuzzy to fit inside her shoes.

Deborah produces two more packages. “And we didn’t forget you two,” she says as she hands them to Aziraphale and Crowley. “I hope you like them.”

Aziraphale opens his first, somehow avoiding even the slightest tear in the tissue paper wrapping. “Tartan! How lovely! How did you guess?”

“It wasn’t hard,” says Naomi. Everyone looks expectantly at Crowley.

Trying to ignore the attention directed his way, Crowley tears open the paper. His socks are black, with silvery white dots. As he unfolds them, he realizes that he’s looking at constellations. He’s silent.

“Naomi said you liked astronomy,” says Deborah.

“Stars, anyway,” he says absently. “I’ll go put these away.” He wanders upstairs. At first he heads for the guest room, but then he remembers that Naomi’s parents are sleeping there tonight, so he gathers his things and moves to the study on the third floor. He throws himself into an armchair, limbs splayed in every direction, looking up at the ceiling.

It’s odd, to have humans associating him with the stars. It’s odd to have anyone do it, but the other demons would bring it up it to fuel their shared grievance, and angels would throw it in his face as a reminder of his Fall. Even Aziraphale would look sad about it. But the humans don’t know any of that, they just know that he likes stars. And he does.

The gift doesn’t hurt the way it would coming from someone who knew, but it is confusing. In Crowley’s experience, people and angels are only kind if they want something (demons, not even then). But he can’t sense any desires from these humans. 

It’s one thing to do little favors for Aziraphale and to accept small kindnesses in return. They have six thousand years of history, an Arrangement, more in common with each other than with anyone else. And, might as well admit it: despite his better judgement and worse nature, for no good reason in the universe, Crowley’s been in love with the angel for a full six thousand years. Of all the stupid things to do.

But none of the humans are in love with him, thank Satan. They just seem to like him, even though they have no good reason to. At first it was mostly an enjoyable novelty, but now Crowley actually cares how they feel, and that makes him anxious. And they keep being nice, even when he’s rude, and asks questions out of turn, and says the wrong thing. He’s waiting for the inevitable moment when they’ll turn on him.

His new gifts—socks, gloves, scarf, books—float in the air in above him.

“What am I even supposed to do with all this stuff?”

“Keep it, I assume.” asks Aziraphale, entering the room. “Is something bothering you?”

Crowley tilts his head further back down the back of the chair, looking at the upside-down angel. “Doesn’t this all strike you as a bit odd? What do they even want?”

“Has it occurred to you that they just want you to be happy?”

It has occurred to Crowley, he knows it’s the simplest explanation, but it just doesn’t make sense. He shakes his head.

“Hmm,” says Aziraphale. “Perhaps the problem here is that you’ve spent six thousand years trying to bring out the worst in humans.”

“Not the absolute worst—they never need my help for that. Just the small things that make them all be a little bit shittier towards each other and tarnish their souls.”

“Yes, well. Meanwhile, I’ve spent six thousand years trying to bring out the best in them, and to be perfectly frank, that hasn’t given me the most positive impression of them either. Perhaps I should have taken your approach—well, the opposite of it—and just encouraged them to be a little bit kinder to each other.”

“So you think this is just…normal? There’s a holiday, or the weather’s nice, or something else good happens, and they’re just…nice to each other?”

Aziraphale looks thoughtful. “I think Naomi and Yael might be a little kinder than average, but yes. Would it really be so strange if that were the case? I’ve seen you do small acts of kindness for no real reason; why wouldn’t humans do the same?”

Crowley slides further down the back of the chair, still upside-down.

“I always have a reason. Sometimes it’s just boredom, sure, but that’s still a reason.”

There’s a soft knock at the door, and the gifts gently fall onto the desk. Naomi and Yael peer around the doorframe.

“Can we come in?” asks Naomi. Aziraphale nods, and Crowley pulls himself back into a vaguely upright position.

Yael looks at Crowley for a minute. “We wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

Naomi nods agreement. “I’m sorry if my parents upset you. They can be a bit much.”

Crowley realizes his glasses are askew. He pushes them back up before they can see his eyes. “Why are you all acting so _nice_?” He means for it to be dripping with contempt, or at least sarcasm, but even to his own ears he just sounds bewildered. He thought he understood humans. They were clever, creative, capable of blistering atrocity and heart-stopping grace, and most of the time they were self-absorbed and petty, all that amazing potential disregarded. He isn’t used to humans just being nice. He doesn’t even like nice.

Yael and Naomi exchange a long look. “You’re our friend, Crowley,” says Yael.

“At the risk of sounding ridiculously sappy, we love you both,” says Naomi. “You’re like the weird English brothers I never had.”

“But you barely know us!”

“I don’t think that’s actually true. I mean, it’s been almost a year. You’ve stayed in our home multiple times, you’ve traveled with us. I knew Zira for a while before that thanks to the rare book forum. And now he sends me these long emails every other week just updating me on your lives.”

“I do hope those aren’t unwelcome,” says Aziraphale. Naomi grins.

“Not at all, it’s like my own personal Zira and Crowley newsletter.” She turns back to Crowley, who has twisted around to face them over the back of the chair. “And Zira keeps sending me prenatal vitamins and books on pregnancy and early childhood. Which is a little weird, but sweet.”

“I don’t recall sending any vitamins,” says Aziraphale with a frown.

“Huh, really? That’s odd. I know it isn’t Eli, because he’s been traveling. Who else do I know in London?”

“If you show me the postmark I can probably tell you where they’ve been sent from,” offers Aziraphale.

“Don’t bother,” says Crowley wretchedly. “You’ll recognize the return address.”

“Should we be asking why you’re being so nice?” asks Naomi.

Crowley hunches his shoulders.

“Ssnot nice. I just thought, human bodies are so fragile, the whole reproduction seems complicated, you probably could use the extra help.” He waves a hand in Aziraphale’s direction. “He’d be sad if something happened.”

A brief smile flashes across Yael’s face, then she turns serious. “Crowley, all this talk of doing nice things is beside the point. You don’t have to do things to earn kindness. You deserve kindness because you exist.”

“But _why_?” It occurs to Crowley that he’s doing it again, asking questions at inappropriate times. Somehow, he always has to ask why, even though it never ends well. He so rarely likes the answers he gets, when he gets any at all. But Yael seems willing to take him seriously.

“Well for one thing, we’re commanded to do acts of lovingkindness.” She repeats the term in Hebrew: “Gemilut hasadim. But also…I think it’s how people are made.”

He shakes his head. “You were _made_ to make choices. Free will.”

“I know. We can choose. And part of our duty, as Jews and just as people, is to help bring about a world where it’s easier for people to make the right choices. I think that, given the chance, most of us will choose kindness and life.”

“You both have already, you know,” says Naomi. “I mean, you chose to leave your awful families—and by the way, I wish I could just slap your parents. But you made it out. That was a choice, and the right one.”

Crowley looks over at Aziraphale, who seems as stunned as he is. More so, probably—Crowley’s wondered occasionally, whether something of humanity hadn’t rubbed off on them. But he hadn’t quite thought through what that would mean. Did everyone have choices? Were Hastur and Michael choosing to be what they were? What an awful thought.

He slides out of the chair and onto the floor, gets up and dusts himself off. “Well, that’s enough ethics for one evening. Wasn’t there a party downstairs?”

Naomi’s eyes widen. “Yes, and I just realized we’ve left Mirka in charge of the latkes for quite a while.” She and Yael hurry downstairs. Crowley follows them, but is stopped by Aziraphale’s hand on his sleeve.

“She’s right, you know,” the angel says.

“What, about us having free will?”

“No. Well, maybe. I don’t know, I need to think about that for a while.” Aziraphale looks troubled, then shakes his head. “But no, that’s not what I was referring to. You deserve kindness, Crowley. You do.”

He shrugs the angel’s hand off and saunters down the stairs. “I’ll think about it.”

*****

More guests had arrived while they were upstairs, and the Chanukah party is now even larger than the seder. Crowley decides early on that he will refuse to remember anyone’s name that he hasn’t already learned. It’s been a tiring day.

Aziraphale collects a plateful of potato pancakes and a slice of brisket. He seems to have trouble choosing between toppings: applesauce or something that Naomi calls sour cream, but looks more like creme fraiche. Finally he goes with both. Crowley fixes his own plate, mostly so Aziraphale will have more to eat when he wants it.

Crowley scans the room. Deborah and Lori are chatting with a dark woman who looks vaguely familiar; as she turns, she gives him a little wave and he realizes it’s the graduate student who’d showed them to Naomi’s office. Lori seems a bit distracted, glancing over in Mirka’s direction every few minutes. Mirka and Harry have resumed their Yiddish conversation, and Crowley decides to eavesdrop. It’s language practice, after all. At first it’s boring talk about people he doesn’t know, but then the subject turns to something more familiar.

“What do you think of my daughter’s new best friends?”

“The boyfriends? They seem cool. They were at the seder, too.”

“I was under the impression that they were not a couple.”

“Well, they’re not out, but come _on_. Look at how they interact. There’s no way they’re not dating.”

“Well, we should honor their preference for secrecy, no matter how poorly they maintain it.

Mirka sighs. “You’re right. Anyway, Lori really likes them, especially Mr. Sunglasses.”

“The other one is quite the scholar. Brilliant young man, and very well-read.”

Crowley realizes with amusement that they’re avoiding using names, in the hopes that no one will realize that they’re gossiping.

Mirka giggles. “He’s not that young.”

“At my age, young lady, everyone seems young. So you think they’re okay? My daughter and her wife seem to adore them, but I wasn’t sure when Sunglasses went sulking upstairs.”

“I don’t think it was sulking. Lori said that Sunglasses came from an even worse family than they did.”

Harry looks sad. “Oh, that does put a different spin on things. Shame on me for making assumptions, and not trusting my daughter’s judgment. I hope he at least liked the socks.”

“They’re very nice socks,” says Crowley in careful Yiddish. Mirka and Harry both start, just a bit, then Harry’s face lights up.

“Naomi didn’t tell me you spoke Yiddish! This is wonderful! Where did you learn it?”

“Oh, um, around. I’m good with languages.”

Crowley thinks he can detect a hint of chagrin in Mirka’s eyes, but she brazens it out with commendable skill. “Somehow, I’m not surprised you speak Yiddish. You should hear his Hebrew,” she says to Harry.

Crowley is already regretting getting involved in this conversation, especially since neither of them seem to be properly embarrassed at being caught gossiping. Fortunately, Harry is called away to light candles—three tonight.

“So you add one per night?” he asks Mirka.

“Yeah. You don’t know the story?” He shakes his head, and she explains. He vaguely remembers it, actually, a guerrilla war waged in the mountains. He doesn’t remember anything about miraculously long-burning oil, but then, he hadn’t been involved on either side of the war. He suspected Aziraphale might have—they’d run into each other and gone out for drinks, and the angel had complained about having to help smuggle supplies through cramped secret tunnels. They’d spent much of the night drinking and catching up. It was a nice memory.

“Ah, you’re commemorating the success of the Maccabean revolt!” says Aziraphale. He looks rather proud of himself.

“No, we never celebrate war,” says Yael. “We’re celebrating the miracle of the lights.”

“And, by extension, preserving our cultural identity,” adds Naomi.

“Well, yes, if you want to get all _secular_ about it,” Yael replies with a teasing smile.

“I think it’s a way of reminding the goyim that we exist and refuse to be wiped out,” says Lori, joining the debate. “That’s why we’re supposed to put the menorah in the window.”

“We’re supposed to put the menorah in the window to celebrate the miracle,” Mirka argues back. “I think it’s a reminder of the power of faith and tradition to hold off the darkness.”

“I’ve always thought it was a bit of a sad story,” says the graduate student. “I mean, Mattathias kills another Jew for collaborating with the oppressors. It’s not entirely a triumphant narrative.”

The debate continues for a while, but Crowley starts to get bored. He notices that Aziraphale has moved to the dining room, but he and Harry are having a lively argument of their own in Hebrew, and Crowley doesn’t feel like intruding. Back in the living room, Crowley notices that Lori is sitting alone and watching Mirka sadly. He wonders whether the young couple has had a fight—a real one, not their usual bickering. Curious, he moves a little closer to where Mirka is talking to Naomi’s mother. They’re too far away for Lori to pick up the conversation, but demonic hearing allows him to eavesdrop.

“So are you seeing anyone?” Deborah asks.

Mirka sighs. “No, I’m still too busy with school, just like the last eight times you’ve asked.” She sounds mildly exasperated, but there’s a lot of affection in her tone as well.

“What about that friend of yours? They’re rather good-looking, don’t you think? And very clever.”

Mirka sighs. “Lori’s great, and I’d say yes in a heartbeat if they asked me out, but I don’t think they like me that way. They always seem kind of annoyed with me, actually.”

Crowley looks back at Lori, who’s still looking wistfully at their friend. Deborah notices and beckons them over.

Naomi comes up to stand next to him. “Eavesdropping?” she asks.

“Wait,” says Crowley, “Those two aren’t together? Since when?”

“Since always,” says Naomi with a resigned sigh.

Crowley shakes his head in disbelief. Naomi grins.

“It’s hard, isn’t it? To watch two people who are so suited for each other completely fail to communicate.”

He scowls at her. “Subtle. But with them it’s obviously mutual.”

Naomi shakes her head. “Oy, gevalt.” She throws up her hands. “I can’t believe I just said that! I’m turning into my father.”

She walks away, muttering under her breath. Crowley decides to see what the children are doing.

The kids are playing a game with a four-sided top and a pile of chocolate coins of various sizes. Two of them recognize him from the seder and invite him to join. It’s a very simple game, but the kids are having fun making up increasingly arcane house rules (and also eating the chocolate). Crowley starts to participate in the impromptu game design session, a surprisingly involved process. He doesn’t notice Aziraphale approaching until her hears an indignant “Crowley!”

He stands up. “What?”

“Are you teaching children a _gambling_ game?”

“No, angel, the children are teaching me.”

“It’s traditional,” Naomi informs them. She peels the foil off a coin and pops it in her mouth. A strange look crosses her face. “Sweetheart?” she beckons Yael over. “Where did you buy the gelt?”

“Same as every year, that place down the block. Why?” Wordlessly, Naomi unwraps a coin and places it in her wife’s mouth. Yael looks surprised.

“Oh wow. This tastes like those fancy chocolate bars you buy at Westside Market.”

“I know! I’m going to have another one!”

Crowley looks over at Aziraphale. He doesn’t have to say anything.

“Well, what was I supposed to do?” the angel murmurs. “I couldn’t subject them to that brown wax that was passing itself off as chocolate.” He unwraps a coin of his own. “Oh yes, this is much better. Try one.”

Crowley takes a bite from one of the smaller coins. It is rather good.

*****

The party eventually winds down, and Crowley and Aziraphale take the air mattress to the study. Crowley inflates the mattress and raises it to a proper bed height, while Aziraphale looks happily at all the books lining the walls. He takes one off the shelf and settles into the armchair.

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way and let you rest.”

Crowley feels a pang of disappointment. “So this was all a ploy to gain access to Naomi’s books?”

“Not entirely. I do enjoy spending time with you. But you’re going to be asleep most of the night.”

“Hmph.”

Crowley settles down on the floating bed and lets the edges of his consciousness gently blur.

“Crowley?”

“Mmphh?”

“When we get back home…there is something I’d like to talk with you about, if you’re amenable.”

“Should I be worried?” he asks, only half-awake.

“I don’t think so. I hope not. It’s nothing bad, at least, I hope you won’t think so.”

Aziraphale sounds a bit worried himself, but there doesn’t seem to be any real urgency to it. Not enough to justify waking up, anyway. The glow of the lamp, the faint rustle of pages, and the comforting presence of the angel all conspire to pull Crowley into sleep.

*****

The next morning there is coffee and bagels, and Naomi’s parents have brought some kind of bread with chocolate folded in. Aziraphale and Naomi are both very excited to see the babka—the angel eats his slice and the second half of Crowley’s.

As she layers salmon onto a bagel, Yael says, “I saw in the paper that Heathrow is pretty much still closed down. Do you guys need to stay for another couple of days?”

“Don’t worry, we’ve made alternate travel arrangements,” says Aziraphale. Crowley raises an eyebrow. Apparently the angel is following his usual pattern of strenuously objecting to something new right up until he gets completely used to it. 

The rest of the day passes peacefully, except for the effusive goodbyes when Naomi’s parents leave. Harry slaps Crowley on the back and says in Yiddish, “You’ll have to come visit us next time you’re in the States!”

Fortunately, he doesn’t wait for a reply before moving on to Aziraphale and repeating his request.

Crowley’s normally wary of physical contact with humans, but these two are so fundamentally good-natured that it doesn’t really bother him when Deborah kisses him firmly on both cheeks. As she does so, she murmurs, “Do consider asking that young man of yours out. He’s so handsome, and obviously crazy about you.”

“ _Mother.”_ Naomi sounds halfway between outrage and resignation.

“Now I see where she gets it from,” Crowley mutters. Yael overhears him and grins.

“Now you see why it’s so hard for her not to interfere. She’s the subtle one of the family.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“I can hear you, you know,” says Naomi, but she’s smiling.

Between the party and the parents, everyone seems tired of social interaction. Yael puts on headphones and does some knitting, while Naomi curls up against her and reads a novel, and Aziraphale reads one of Naomi’s scholarly books. Crowley, feeling restless, paces around the house. He tries the roof, but just cracking the door open leads to a blast of cold air in his face, and he quickly retreats to the study. Naomi must have been there at some point that morning, because the little azalea is now on her desk, with a ribbon tied around its container. Hanging from the ribbon is an index card that reads:

PLEASE BE NICE TO ME.

I DESERVE LOVE.

Crowley snorts. _Subtle, Naomi_.

Contrary demon that he is, he wants to flagrantly disobey the sign. He should warn the azalea to be on its best behavior, threaten it with dire consequences, enumerate its flaws. Make it realize just how tenuous its current position is.

To his deep annoyance, he can’t seem to manage the words.

Finally, he gives up. He clears his throat.

“Fine. You’re an adequate plant. You’re probably doing your best. Naomi likes you, anyway. So that’s good.”

He glares at it. Crowley isn’t sure how a plant can manage to look so smug without a face, but somehow, the azalea does.

****

“Hey, do you guys have time to get dinner with us before your flight home?” Naomi looks hopeful.

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” says Aziraphale. “Is there another traditional meal tonight?”

She grins. “You could say that.”

Yael rolls her eyes. “This is another of those New York things that Naomi likes to pretend is ancient Jewish tradition.”

Aziraphale looks confused. “I thought you were from New Jersey.”

“I am, but my dad grew up here—in this house, in fact.”

“In case you were wondering how we can afford to live in Park Slope, now you know,” says Yael.

It had not occurred to Crowley to wonder. Real estate prices were someone else’s problem, though he had claimed credit for London’s housing market in a report once.

“Anyway, yes, it is an ancient and hallowed tradition of my people—New York Jews and their Jersey descendants—to get Chinese food on Christmas.”

“Oh, I do like Chinese food,” says Aziraphale.

“So that’s a yes?”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, who gives his usual shrug.

“I believe so, yes.”

*****

After candle-lighting and dinner, Crowley and Aziraphale gather their gifts and say their goodbyes. Crowley notices that Naomi has grown quiet and is carefully not looking at him. She bites her lip, clearly struggling not to say something. He can see what she wants to ask, and with an internal wince, Crowley realizes that her silence is his fault—she’s trying so hard not to pressure him. He’s already messed things up. But maybe he can fix this.

“So. Um. When’s your next holiday again? We’ll probably want to make travel plans for that…”

She perks up. “Purim’s in March! It’s a fun one, too, and we’d love to have you. But no pressure!”

“Nah. I wouldn’t come if I hated it.” Grudging as the admission is, it still makes the two women smile at him.

“Glad to hear it,” says Yael.

Naomi turns to Aziraphale. “Remember your promise!”

The angel inexplicably blushes and looks away. “I will.”

“Sweetheart.” Yael looks resigned, but Naomi is unrepentant.

“It’s not interfering, it’s a reminder!”

As they leave the house, Crowley can hear Yael still teasing her wife about whatever it is.

“Don’t suppose you feel like explaining?” he asks Aziraphale.

“Yes, well.” The angel is still pink, though that could be the freezing night air. “I will, once we get home.”

They find the phone booth, and Crowley quickly starts to dial. “Oh wait, my car is parked in front of your shop.” He hangs up and dials a different number.

“Oh dear, I hope they haven’t clamped it.”

“Not like it matters either way.”

Aziraphale tsks, but it’s obvious that he’s not actually bothered. He takes Crowley’s wrist in an oddly tentative grip.

“You have to hold on tighter than that, angel. Unless you’re ready to try doing this yourself.” His own grasp on Aziraphale’s wrist is perhaps a bit too tight, but he can’t help but imagine the angel slipping away and ending up somewhere dangerous. Or worse, trapped in someone’s messages. Crowley would find him eventually, no matter how many voicemail accounts he had to check, but it wouldn’t be fun.

“If you’re going to do this with me, you have to at least learn the basics. Pay attention.” He explains the process as they go. “And see, you exit just like this.” They’re in the shop. Aziraphale frowns, rubbing his wrist.

“I distinctly recall saying that I was not fond of this method of transportation, Crowley. I don’t see why you insist on instructing me.”

“What if there’s an emergency? Or the airport shuts down again?”

“Crowley, please tell me you’re not planning anything else with Heathrow.”

He smiles a slow, toothy smile.

“Crowley.”

“Hah. No, twice was enough, but you never know what will happen. Anyway, you can’t tell me the phone lines are worse than that globe thing you used after discorporating.” He makes a face at the memory, feeling the echo of that confused jumble of despair, hope, and serious inebriation.

Aziraphale shudders. “I think that’s why I don’t like traveling through the telephone. It’s too similar. But you’re right, I shouldn’t resist using such a valuable tool.”

“Good. So, I’ll be on my way, then?” Crowley slowly ambles in the general direction of the front door, hoping that if he takes long enough to leave, the angel will invite him to stay for a drink or two before he goes.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “Crowley, before you leave.”

Crowley stops, pleased with his success. “Yes?”

“I’d still like to talk with you about something. If you can stay a little longer.”

It’s not the hoped-for offer of a drink, but it is an invitation. “I don’t have anywhere I need to be.”

“Thank you. Let’s sit on the sofa to talk.” Crowley obligingly sits, but Aziraphale doesn’t. “Perhaps we should start with some tea?”

“Spit it out, angel, it can’t be that bad. The world’s not ending again, is it?”

“No, it’s just, well…” he continues pacing.

“Is there something wrong?” It’s not the question he wants to ask: _Are you angry with me_? But he’s afraid to hear the answer.

“No! Not in the slightest. It’s just, well,” Aziraphale sighs. “I’m not used to being the brave one.”

“What? You’re plenty brave.” Even after another six thousand years, he’ll never forget the sight of Aziraphale, gripping his sword and facing certain doom. Ordering Crowley to do something. On pain of never speaking to him again.

On some level, the angel must know. Why would he have used that as a threat, otherwise? Crowley feels a sudden stab of dread. Aziraphale can’t have decided to talk about that. He can be smug, sanctimonious, even petty, but he’s not cruel. 

“If so, it’s only in certain ways.” But the angel does finally sit on the couch. He fidgets with a button, laces the fingers on both hands together, tugs a bit at his jacket. He starts to say something, stops, tries again.

“A few months ago, after our…disagreement. Naomi asked me something. It was rather personal.”

Crowley snorts, amused in spite of his worry. “I’m not in the least bit surprised. Do I even want to know what?” He’s increasingly sure he doesn’t.

“She asked me why we—you and I—weren’t a, well, a couple. The way she is with Yael, I mean.”

Crowley is finding it hard to breathe. _Stupid body, you know you don’t need breath._ “I know what _couple_ means, angel.”

“Yes, of course you do, sorry.”

The silence probably only lasts a split second, but Crowley’s nerves are screaming at him and it feels like much longer.

“And you told her you weren’t interested in fraternizing?”

Aziraphale looks startled. “No! No, I told her it was because _you_ weren’t interested. At all.”

For a moment, Crowley freezes, gives up breathing altogether. Then, silently, he takes his glasses off, folds them up, places them on an endtable beside the couch. He rests his elbows on his knees. Then slowly, carefully, he lowers his face down to rest in his hands, eyes closed, and doesn’t move.

He counts to ten. He counts to ten again. He counts up to twenty in a long-dead language, and back down to zero in another one.

It doesn’t help.

He remembers that morning, after their fight. Naomi’s “at you” laugh. Yael saying, _Zira probably said something spectacularly stupid._ He wonders if she knows how right she was. Probably.

He raises his head, straightens up as much as he ever does, and looks at Aziraphale. The angel is biting his lip and avoiding eye contact.

“What,” says Crowley, with exquisite deliberation, “in Heaven, in Hell, or on Earth could possibly have given you that idea?”

Aziraphale’s face is quite pink. “You’ve always been the one to, I don’t know, advance our, whatever this is. You proposed the Arrangement. You were willing to say we were friends when I was too frightened to.” His pink deepens. “But you never seemed interested in more, even when I tried complimenting your appearance, or telling you how fond of you I was.”

Crowley looks skyward. “Fond can mean a lot of things, angel. _And_ you told me not to go too fast.”

“That was over half a century ago! I’ve tried to take it back many times since.” Aziraphale rubs his forehead. “I’m making a muddle of this. Let me start again.” He takes Crowley’s hands and nervously looks him in the eyes, sky blue meeting serpent gold.

“Crowley. I care about you deeply and also I would very much like to kiss you.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

There’s a brief moment where he still isn’t sure what to do. He could yank his hands away and run, just avoid Aziraphale for another century or two. He could treat it like a joke and hope Aziraphale is willing to let things just drop. He’s not going to do either of these, of course he isn’t, but he considers them for a just a second, because who knew that being offered what he’s desperately wanted for six thousand years could be so utterly terrifying?

What he actually does is what he’s been dreaming of doing, or trying very hard not to dream of doing, for all six thousand of those years.

With Aziraphale still holding his hands, Crowley leans forward and kisses him. It’s soft and awkward and wonderful and over much too soon, because Aziraphale pulls back, and Crowley knows he’s ruined everything.

“Angel, I’m sorry, I didn’t ask, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m” His rush of apologies is interrupted by Aziraphale’s headshake. There’s a light in the angel’s eyes that’s both new and strangely familiar.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” says Aziraphale firmly. And then the angel reaches out and pulls Crowley down for a longer, much less tentative (though still a bit awkward) kiss. This time, it’s Crowley who pulls back, albeit quite reluctantly. He still can’t believe this is happening. He’s still having trouble remembering how to breathe.

There’s a bray of laughter outside, as some drunks walk past the shop. Aziraphale starts, eyes wide.

“Angel?”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Can you check for observers? Not just humans--particularly those who aren't human. I want to make sure no one is watching.”

He scans the area. Neither angels nor demons are particularly good at hiding their presence on earth, so he’s able to assure Aziraphale with a fair degree of confidence that they are completely unobserved. The angel sags with relief.

“Embarrassed?” Crowley asks him.

“No.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “I can’t help but worry that they would try to punish me again if they knew I was this happy.”

“Happy?” Crowley barely realizes that all his contributions to this conversation have been single words. He’s still stuck on the two kisses, and wondering if there will be a third.

Aziraphale looks at him and smiles, and Crowley’s train of thought is utterly derailed.

“Yes. Very happy.”

There is a third kiss, and a fourth, and Crowley loses count after that because his hands are on the angel’s shoulders and Aziraphale's are around his waist and the angel is pulling him close and it starts to become a bit overwhelming. His body decides that it does need air after all, and he draws a deep shaky breath. He throws his arms around Aziraphale and buries his face in the angel’s shoulder and just breathes, trying to catch up with the tide of emotion. Aziraphale runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair and he never wants to move again.

“Is everything all right, my dear?”

“Very all right. Much better than all right. It’s just a lot.”

He can feel the angel press a kiss on the top of his head. “Should we slow down a bit?”

Crowley smiles at the irony. “Maybe a bit.”

“Fortunately, we have all the time in the world.”

They sit like that for a while. Eventually, Crowley’s body decides that it wants sleep, and informs him of this with a giant yawn.

“Do you need to rest?”

“Guess so. Don’t suppose I can sleep here tonight?”

“Of course. Every night, if you want.”

He does want. He’s wanted so many things for so long, and suddenly they’re all within reach. Maybe he can ask for one more.

“Don’t suppose you could do your reading in bed?”

“To be perfectly honest, I was hoping to.”

It takes them a little time to reach the bedroom. It turns out that climbing up stairs is hard when one’s arm is around another’s waist, but neither of them is willing to disentangle. And they keep getting distracted. But they do make it, and Aziraphale tucks layers of blankets around them both. Aziraphale stays sitting up in bed, so Crowley throws an arm over the angel’s legs and rests his head on his lap.

Aziraphale bends forward to kiss the side of his head. “Should I let you rest?”

“Yeah, I think I need to.” Something occurs to him, and he tightens his arm. “You’ll be here in the morning?”

“Of course. I have no intention of going anywhere before you wake. Though I do hope you won’t sleep away another century.”

“Won’t.” He has many reasons not to sleep that long. A thought occurs to him, and he briefly lifts his head.

"Hey, don't put this in your newsletter to Naomi, okay?"

"I won't if you'd prefer it that way. Are you embarrassed?"

"Nah, I just want to see her reaction." That issue resolved, Crowley is ready to sleep.

“Before you sleep, my dear, there is one more thing.”

“Mmm?”

“I’m sure you’ve figured this out already, but I love you. I wanted to say it.”

Crowley wants to ask the obvious question, the same one he’s always asked, no matter how much trouble it brings. _Why_?

Why would Aziraphale love him? Why would anyone?

But then, why does he love the angel?

_Because you are kind_

_Because you deserve it._

_Because you exist._

“You know,” he says aloud, “I think we _can_ make choices.”

“Oh?” If Aziraphale is disconcerted by this seeming non sequitur, he doesn’t show it.

“I mean, I didn’t choose to fall in love with you, that happened all on its own. But _this_ ”—his arm tightens again—“feels like a choice.”

“Hmm. I do hope you’re right. “

“Why?” That question again.

“If so, we can keep choosing this for as long as we both exist. And I hope that will be a very long time.”

That, Crowley decides, is the best answer he’s ever gotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shana tova! My Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur were exactly what I needed, and I hope that was the case for everyone else who observed them. May 5780 be a good year for all of us, Jews and gentiles alike. 
> 
> Somehow, despite my efforts, the chapters keep getting longer. I'm going to blame Chanukah for this--it's very on-theme for things to last longer than expected. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter! Two more to go.


	8. We're Still Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes and definitions for this chapter are [here](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/264685315).

New York in March is still too bloody cold for Crowley’s taste, especially after the sun sets. He’s glad that he can slide an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and leech some spare body heat. He’s glad for other reasons too, but right now the cold is the most pressing one. But then Aziraphale smiles at him, and warmth drops to second.

“Do you want my coat, dearest?”

“Nah, this is enough.”

He still has an arm around Aziraphale when Naomi opens the front door, and he can see her notice it—her eyes get just a bit wider, and so does her smile. But she doesn’t say anything other than, “You made it! Come in out of the cold!”

Crowley is only too glad to accept the invitation. He heads straight for the living room, aiming for the corner of the couch closest to the radiator.

“There was ice on the ground,” he complains. “Ice. In March.”

“Yeah, we’re having a bit of a cold snap. Here, have a blanket.” It’s pale blue and fuzzy, but now that he spends most of his time with Aziraphale, he’s resigned himself to colors other than black and red.

Aziraphale’s voice drifts in from the kitchen. “Does anyone else want cocoa?”

“Me!” says Naomi.

“Anything hot!” Crowley calls.

Aziraphale returns carrying three mugs. Naomi sniffs the air. “Do I smell coffee?”

“Crowley isn’t very fond of cocoa,” the angel explains as he hands her a mug of chocolate. He sets his own mug on the windowsill, then kisses Crowley as he hands him the coffee.

Naomi’s face lights up. “I knew it! I _knew_ it!”

“You told her?” Crowley asks Aziraphale.

“I didn’t!”

“Eeee, I’m so happy for you guys!” In a rush, she sets down her mug and runs over to enfold them both in a very enthusiastic hug. Then she jumps back. “Oh no, I’m sorry, I should have asked before hugging.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley says. It’s hard to begrudge her.

“Eee!” She hugs them again before reclaiming her hot chocolate. “This is great!”

“How did you know?” Crowley asks. “He promised not to say anything.”

“Oh, he didn’t. I mean, not exactly. But last time you were here he promised me he was going to talk to you, and then he never mentioned doing so. Which normally would mean that he’d chickened out again”—she grins at Aziraphale’s huffy look—“except that all his newsletter emails mentioned how happy he was at least three or four times. Also there was a lot more talk of what you both had for breakfast.” 

“You,” Crowley tells the angel with a great deal of affection, “are terrible at keeping secrets.”

“You can’t have expected me to lie! Or to not talk about how happy I am.”

There’s not much to say to that, so he just throws an arm around the angel’s shoulders and pulls him close as he finishes his coffee. “Where’s Yael?” he asks Naomi. “Wait…didn’t you have a baby?”

Naomi laughs. “Yes, I have a baby. Yael’s taking her for a walk, because it seems to help her fall asleep. They should be home…about now, actually.”

Yael fails to materialize on cue, but she does arrive soon after, carrying a well-wrapped bundle with two fists and a small face. Naomi takes the baby for a moment while Yael kisses her wife hello and removes her coat and boots. Taking the baby back, she turns her head to see the two of them curled up together on the couch, Aziraphale’s head resting on Crowley’s shoulder. One dark eyebrow lifts, and she smiles at Naomi. “You were right.” Naomi’s answering smile is extremely smug.

Yael is less expressive than her wife—not a difficult feat—but there’s no doubting her sincerity as she says, “We’re very happy for you.”

“Thank you,” says Aziraphale. “We’re very happy as well.” Crowley manages a nod.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a thank you for all your interference,” he says to Naomi.

“No, no,” she says airily. “The satisfaction of being right is all the thanks I need.”

Yael snorts, and the corners of her mouth twitch up. “Would you two like to meet Miriam?”

Miriam doesn’t look that different from the last two infants Crowley spent time with, though her hair is darker than theirs. And of course she lacks Adam’s portentous aura. She’s dozing when Aziraphale and Crowley approach, but as they draw nearer, she wakes up with a yawn and waves her tiny fists in the air. Aziraphale flutters nearby, unsure of what to do, but Crowley extends a finger for the baby to grab.

She stares at them with wide blue eyes, clearly unsure what to make of these two new strangers.

“Guys, meet Miriam Nancy Lipsky,” says Naomi. “Miriam, meet your uncles Zira and Crowley.”

“Uncles?” says Aziraphale, startled.

”Don’t worry, Zira, it’s not a binding commitment,” Naomi replies.

“It’s better than being godfathers again,” says Crowley with a grin. The baby mirrors his smile and contributes some vowels to the conversation.

“You were godfathers?” asks Yael.

“Only in a very informal capacity. And we made rather a muddle of it.” Aziraphale looks regretful.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Crowley says. “It’s not as if the world ended. And the boy turned out extremely normal. ”

Aziraphale sighs. “I’ve been wondering if perhaps we should attempt to contact young Warlock.”

“The boy’s name was Warlock and he still turned out normal?” Naomi’s considering smile has returned. “You couldn’t have been that bad, then.”

“My point exactly,” says Crowley.

“Did you fall out of touch?” asks Yael.

“In a manner of speaking,” says Aziraphale. “We were working for his parents, and our, er, employment terms ended. They moved back to America soon after. Do you think we should contact him, or would that be untoward?”

There’s a touch of sadness in Yael’s voice. “None of the adults who came and went in my life ever stayed in touch. But then, I hardly had a normal or healthy childhood. I’d probably be happy to hear from many of them now that I’m an adult, but it would have been too much to deal when I was younger. Emotionally, I mean.”

Naomi squeezes her arm and says, “Most of my babysitters didn’t stay in touch, and it was fine. Kids are pretty resilient, and they also have their own lives and friends. But it’s probably fine to reach out and say hi.” She thinks for a moment. “Unless you’re worried that his home life isn’t safe, I wouldn’t try and contact him behind his parents’ back. But you could reach out through his parents.”

Yael nods. “Or start sending him birthday and holiday cards. Oh, or say happy birthday over email. That way you’re keeping the lines of communication open, but you’re not pressuring him. And if he ever does want to talk, he’ll have your contact info. That’s what I would do if I didn’t want to go through his parents.”

“That’s very well thought-out,” says Aziraphale.

Yael smiles, but it’s still a bit melancholy. “I’ve had a lot of opportunities to think about the matter.”

Crowley is about to change the subject, but Miriam does it for him with a wail.

“Time to feed her,” Naomi says with a sigh. “And probably change her diaper as well.”

“Have you two eaten yet?” asks Yael. “I made soup last night I can reheat.”

“That would be lovely,” says Aziraphale.

“I put sheets and pillows and stuff in the guest room this morning, so it should be all ready for you when you’re done eating,” Naomi adds on her way out of the living room. She stops in the doorway and turns back with a grin.

“I didn’t bother getting out the air mattress.”

*****

Upstairs, Aziraphale stops outside the guest room door.

“Oh dear, I left my cocoa downstairs.” He starts to turn, but Crowley preempts him.

“I’ll get it.”

The angel smiles and briefly caresses his cheek. “Thank you, dearest.”

It’s nice to do things for Aziraphale and have him understand what they actually are. Crowley gets self-conscious, using words—it’s easy to slip into sarcasm. But actions are easy, and Aziraphale is smart enough to understand what he’s saying with them.

When he returns bearing a freshly-made mug of chocolate, he sees that Aziraphale is sitting up on the bed, his legs tucked under the blankets. He takes the mug from Crowley with another “thank you!” and sips at it, sighing with contentment. Crowley just watches him for a moment, feeling happy. He’s still not used to this quiet sort of happiness.

“Coming to bed?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley doesn’t answer, just slides into bed and wraps his arms around the angel, who hugs him back. “Something on your mind?”

“Nah. Just happy. ’Ssa bit weird, is all.”

“Still?”

“Yeah. Can’t believe we can do this now.” He kisses Aziraphale. “Or this. Or—“

“Crowley!” The angel is blushing. Smiling, but blushing. It’s delightful.

*****

He never knows what it is that wakes him in the middle of the night, heart racing and limbs tense, but it happens more often than he likes. Half awake, he reaches for Aziraphale, feels the angel take his hand.

“You’re here?”

“Yes.”

“You’re alive?”

“Yes. We’re safe.”

It takes a few minutes to calm down, and even as Crowley slides back into sleep, he can still feel his heart pounding.

*****

He wakes up curled around Aziraphale, head in the angel’s lap. It doesn’t matter what position he falls asleep in, he always wakes up like this, and Aziraphale always smiles down at him as soon as he opens his eyes, and Crowley always thinks _Oh good, you’re still here._

“Good morning, dear.”

He’s still a bit groggy and unsettled from last night’s interrupted sleep. “Mmmrrph”

Aziraphale gently brushes hair away from Crowley’s face. “Still asleep?”

“Mmmf”

“I was just about to head downstairs, if you’d like to join me.”

Crowley opens his eyes a crack. It’s just enough to check that Aziraphale is holding neither book nor mug. He’d probably have yanked Aziraphale under the blankets regardless, but this way there’s no spills to clean up or complaining about wrinkled pages.

“Crowley!”

Crowley wraps his arms and legs around the angel. “Stay here. You’re warm.”

Aziraphale manages to get his arms free, but since he’s using them to hold Crowley, that’s fine.

“This is very pleasant, my dear, but I did have plans for the morning.”

Crowley kisses him and slips his hands under the angel’s shirt. “Bet I can convince you to stay.”

“You are _very_ persuasive, it’s true, but—”

Crowley is not going to be diverted so easily. “A little waiting won’t hurt, right?” he murmurs between kisses.

“I suppose half an hour won't make much difference,” Aziraphale says. He might have said more, but Crowley successfully distracts him.

***** 

It takes closer to forty-five minutes, but they both make it downstairs. Naomi is sitting on the sofa, half-dozing. She opens her eyes when she hears them come down.

“Crowley, are you coming too?”

“Where are you going?”

“Well, I have to take Miriam in for her check-up, and there’s a rare book store near the clinic that Zira wanted to look at, and he offered to help me run some errands after.”

None of those sounds particularly interesting to Crowley, but he decides to come along anyway. He’s still got a vague sense of disquiet nibbling at the edges of his spine, and his mind keeps trying to offer reasons for it, throwing up little flashes of fire and shouting and weightless terror. The loudness of the city might provide some distraction, and he doesn’t feel like being alone.

The subway seems crowded for late morning on a Monday, and no one is eager to volunteer their seat. Naomi leans against the pole, and behind her glasses, Crowley can see dark circles under her eyes. He scans the seats until he spots a healthy young man in a suit. Crowley doesn’t say anything as he approaches, just stands close, leaning over the man and exuding a faint occult menace. The man glances up, sees Crowley’s sharp-toothed grin, and shifts uncomfortably. But New Yorkers are made of stern stuff, and dislodging one from a subway seat is harder than Crowley had anticipated. The man squirms, but doesn’t acknowledge Crowley.

Aziraphale approaches the man. “Excuse me, do you think you could yield your seat to the young lady with the infant? You are sitting in one of the priority seats, after all.”

Crowley can tell how badly the man wants to refuse, or better yet, pretend he didn’t hear anything. But other passengers are starting to glare at him, and the man gives up. Naomi half sits, half collapses into the space he’s left behind.

“Thank you for that,” she says.

“Are you feeling well?” Aziraphale asks. “Perhaps you should be visiting the clinic for yourself.”

“Just sleepy.” She yawns, as if to demonstrate. “Miriam was fussy for some reason. It’s odd; she normally sleeps through the night. I know how lucky that makes us.”

Aziraphale looks puzzled. “Don’t most people sleep at night?”

She smiles. “Not most babies. Every parent I know has told us how amazingly fortunate we are.”

“Do you mean to say that you go through all that to have a baby and then you don’t even get proper sleep after?” Crowley is outraged on her behalf. Humans have so much to deal with already, just doing their everyday human things. _And then people like us come and mess around with them_. He’s glad he’s retired now.

*****

Crowley rather enjoys the book store visit—it’s amusing to watch Aziraphale try to buy a book from someone as reluctant to sell as he is. Afterwards, they find Naomi outside the clinic, holding a fussy Miriam. “How is she?” asks Aziraphale.

“Probably fine, but the doctor thinks she might have an ear infection. If it doesn’t clear up in a day or two we’ll have to try antibiotics.”

Crowley knows what Aziraphale will do next, but he beats him to it, flashing a triumphant smile at the angel. The sudden absence of pain seems to come as a bit of a shock to Miriam, and she takes in a deep breath to start crying. But then it seems to sink in that her ear no longer hurts, and she instead lets out a string of cheerful syllables. Naomi repeats them back to her, and adds, “Are you feeling better? Maybe we won’t have to give you yucky antibiotics!”

Then she looks back up to Aziraphale and Crowley and asks how their morning went. Aziraphale starts telling her of their book store adventures, to her apparent delight. Crowley tries to listen, but he still feels distracted and antsy. He can’t tell if it’s real foreboding or just something misfiring again in his corporeal endocrine system. Stupid bodies.

*****

When they get back to the house, Naomi drafts both of them into helping her clean and prepare for tomorrow’s party. After trying and failing to juggle both Miriam and an armful of assorted items, she calls over to Aziraphale.

“Zira, can you hold her for a moment? I need to do some stuff upstairs.”

“Ah, well, that is…” the angel looks nervous. “How do I do it?”

Naomi gently places the baby in his arms and positions his hands to support her head properly.

“Just like that. Think you can manage that for a couple minutes?” Naomi looks exhausted, which is probably why Aziraphale nods and attempts to reassure her that he can manage. It’s probably also why she doesn’t notice just how daunted Aziraphale seems by the task. Naomi blinks a few times, shakes her head, and says, “Thanks, be right back.”

Aziraphale stands perfectly still. Crowley smirks.

“You can relax, angel. You won’t drop her.”

“What if I start to hold her incorrectly? What if fail to support her head properly? I have so little experience with human infants.” Other than the movement of his mouth, he might as well be a statue. Miriam seems to pick up on his nervousness, because her face starts to wrinkle up, and Crowley knows she’s about to start crying.

“Okay, fine. Give her here.” Crowley gently takes the baby from the panicked angel. “I’ve got her. Why don’t you go help Naomi?”

Aziraphale gives him a look overflowing with gratitude and takes the suggestion. Crowley looks down at Miriam.

“Hello, tiny human.”

The baby reaches for his glasses. She doesn’t have the coordination yet to grab them, but her infant mind sees the shiny thing and wants it. Crowley is an expert at wants, and babies’ desires are simple to read. This is an easy one to gratify—he hands her the glasses, and her tiny fingers curl tightly around them. It takes her three tries to stick the new object into her mouth—she keeps missing and hitting herself in the face—but she is determined, and she gets it right eventually. Crowley can appreciate that determination, even if it is currently in the pursuit of covering his glasses in spit. Goal achieved, Miriam turns her attention to Crowley. She looks at his exposed face in fascination.

“That’s right, I’m a big scary demon,” he says, widening his eyes at her. She waves her free fist in the air.

“Not impressed? How about now?” He wiggles a long snaky tongue at her. She tries to grab it, but misses.

“Still not scared, huh? What about…now!” His human head is replaced by a terrifying snake demon’s. Miriam, lacking both context and object permanence, seems to think this is a new trick for her amusement. She laughs at him and blows a spit bubble. Crowley returns to normal.

“Good human. I’m proud of you already.”

He hears Naomi and Aziraphale coming down the stairs and carefully retrieves his glasses, miraculously sans baby drool.

Naomi enters the room and stares blankly at them for a moment. Crowley can read her desires in every line of her body. There is one thing she wants more than anything else right now, and it’s sleep.

“Naomi. Naomi!” She starts.

“Crowley?”

“Go take a nap.”

“As soon as I feed her and clean the kitchen…”

Crowley glances over at Aziraphale, hoping he will pick up on the idea. Aziraphale nods and puts a gentle hand on Naomi’s shoulder.

“Why don’t you just sit down on the sofa for a moment to catch your breath?” The angel slowly guides her into the living room, Crowley and Miriam trailing behind.

“Now, I will tidy up, and Crowley can look after the baby. He’s very good with children.”

“I can tell,” Naomi says with a yawn. “But it’s a lot of work.”

“I worked as a nanny for years,” Crowley informs her. “I think I can manage for an hour.”

Naomi rolls her eyes. “Of course you were a nanny. Was this when Zira was a gardener?”

“Yes, actually,” says Aziraphale. “We worked on the same estate, with young Warlock.”

“Someday, you will have to tell me about all the different jobs you’ve worked.” She yawns again. “But not right now.”

Within a minute, she’s asleep on the couch.

“Well, cleaning will go a lot faster now,” says Crowley.

While Aziraphale uses his powers to make things clean, Crowley feeds Miriam and entertains her with various toys that he finds scattered around the living room, all while keeping up a steady stream of conversation.

“Now, you’re probably not going to grow up to crush all the nations of the world beneath your feet, but don’t feel bad. We tried that already, and the kid made the smart call not to do it. And there’s no reason why you can’t cause some serious trouble once you get older. Maybe a localized reign of terror. You’re already not afraid of demons, that’s a good start.”

“Crowley! Are you trying to lead a two month-old baby down the path of wickedness?”

“You gotta start early, angel.”

“I hardly think Yael and Naomi would thank us for corrupting their daughter.”

“I just want her to be aware of her options, is all.” Crowley tries to sound as innocent as possible—partly to avoid disturbing the baby, and partly in the hopes of annoying the angel further. After six thousand years of exasperating each other, it’s become yet another way of showing affection.

Aziraphale smiles at him. “Crowley, I know you’re just being provoking. I’m sure you don’t actually want the child to become an unholy terror.”

Crowley addresses the baby again. “Ignore him. You can be an unholy terror if you want. Or a holy terror, I suppose, though I’d rather you didn’t. The important thing is that you know you have choices.”

The precise meaning of this speech is lost on the infant, but she smiles at him and punches his hair.

*****

Naomi sleeps for a little over two hours, and wakes up looking much happier. She tries to apologize for making Crowley take care of Miriam for so long, but he waves her apologies away. “She’s a very easy baby to care for,” he reassures Naomi, not mentioning that most babies are easy to care for when you can tell what they want and why they’re crying.

Caring for Miriam was a pleasant distraction, but disquiet still shimmers underneath his skin, and he jumps when Aziraphale brushes against him. He turns his head to snap something, but catches himself before the words even form. He doesn’t want to take his bad mood out on the angel, and he’s worried that will if he stays around, so he announces that he's going upstairs to think. 

Aziraphale looks at him, brow wrinkled with concern. ”Would you like me to accompany you?" Crowley briefly considers saying yes, but shakes his head. 

"They need your help setting up for the party."

"You're far more important than any party, as I'm sure both Naomi and Yael would agree."

"Um, yes. Definitely," says Naomi. 

"It's fine. I'm fine. Just need some quiet."

He grabs Aziraphale's coat and scarf along with his own, and takes them up to the roof. Some of the plants have been moved indoors for the winter, but there are still a few evergreens and some of the more hardy perennials. He doesn't talk to them, though. If Naomi catches him yelling at more of her plants, he'll never hear the end of it. 

He lied a little about the quiet. He doesn't really want quiet or time to think. His mind keeps drifting back to things he'd rather not remember--nothing solid, just little flashes that he shoves away. He wants that to stop, or for his hands to stop shaking, or at least a good distraction. But what he has is this rooftop garden, and the background noise of the city, and the comfort of wrapping Aziraphale's scarf around his neck and face. He hears the door open behind him, but doesn't turn around. 

"I'm fiiiine" he says, singsong.

"I believe you," Yael replies. "But Zira says you’ve been up here for almost an hour, and I wanted to make sure you were okay and not stuck in a bad memory loop."

She's hit uncomfortably close to the mark. Crowley snaps, "What makes you an expert in this, anyway?" Part of him tenses, waiting for the backlash. But he's learned that Yael actually likes questions, even when he’s rude about them.

“My own life aside, I work in refugee aid services. I do know a bit about trauma.” She comes up to stand beside him at the railing, and doesn’t say anything more.

Yael is good at silence. Crowley is not.

“I suppose you have yet another story for me?”

“Not off the top of my head. I could try and think of one, if you want."

"I don't _want_ anything, except for this to stop happening. You’re such an expert, tell me when it goes away.”

She shrugs. "It's different for everyone. Some people, it goes away quickly, or never sets in at all. For most of us, it gets a little better, and we get better at dealing with it, but it never really goes away for good. You just learn to live around it.”

"Ugh." He rests his forehead on the rail and thinks. The shakiness is new, since the fire, but the rest of it isn’t. He's been dealing with bad memories—what Yael calls 'trauma'—for a very long time. Every demon has. It’s what defines them—that and being unforgivable. He lifts his head and looks up at the gray Brooklyn sky. He knew that bad things happened to humans—usually because of other humans—but Crowley had never spent much time thinking about what it did to them. It had never occurred to him that there might be humans like him out there, walking around with the same kind of cracks running through them. It’s oddly comforting, though it doesn’t seem fair to the humans. _Why would You do this to people? Demons, sure, but why people? They didn't even_ do _anything to You!_ Well, except for the whole apple thing, but that was only two of them. And it was a setup, which brings him back to the original question. That same unanswerable question.

God does not like questions. It’s why they aren’t on speaking terms anymore.

For once, it’s Yael that breaks the silence.

“You know, there are specialists who deal with this, doctors and therapists. I could—“

“Nope.”

She smiles. “I thought you’d say that. But I wanted you to know you have the option. And I do have some handouts that might be helpful, with exercises you can do on your own. Or not, as you see fit.”

He thinks about it, makes a complicated movement that could be a nod, a shrug, or just a stretch.

“And, hey, Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“You _are_ getting better. When I first met you, you were this cranky resentful guy with an unhealthy fixation on my wife’s internet friend.”

“Pff!” Crowley’s attempt at a protest comes out more like a laugh, and Yael continues.

“But over the past year, you’ve gotten a lot more relaxed, and open, and just…present. And it’s not just your relationship with Zira. You ask questions instead of just being sarcastic. Well, sometimes they’re sarcastic questions, but still. You’ve started to actually _talk_ with us and pay attention to the people around you. It’s been really great to see you open up.”

She turns her head to look at him. “I don’t know what happened in the beginning, but whatever it was, you managed to survive it. And you keep getting better. You’ve worked things out with Zira, and you’ve become our friend, and now you bring joy to all of our lives. And probably some days will always be worse than others, and it may never go away entirely, but you will keep getting better.” She smiles. “There’s your story. Even though you didn’t ask for it.”

Crowley searches for something sarcastic to say, just to prove her wrong. “Not much of narrative arc.”

“Good thing you’re still around to write the rest.” In one graceful motion, she straightens up, turns around, and starts walking towards the door. He follows.

“It’s cold up here.”

She gestures to the ladder. “Come on, I’ll give you some worksheets.”

*****

The rooftop conversation doesn’t completely banish Crowley’s bad mood. He can still feel something unpleasant hiding in the corners of his mind, just waiting. But it’s helpful, somehow, to place it in context. And some of the exercises Yael gives him do help a little. He probably shouldn’t find that as annoying as he does, that these stupid human worksheets actually do something. He complains about it at dinner, and to his surprise, Naomi agrees with him.

“I know, right? When I first started taking medication for my concentration problems, I was _so mad_ that it worked.”

Yael’s face is full of resigned amusement, but Aziraphale looks deeply puzzled.

“I’m sorry, did you say that you were angry because your medicine fulfilled its intended function?”

Naomi laughs. “Yes! It’s like…I’d built this narrative in my head where the problem was my fault. And it was a relief to know that it wasn’t, but at the same time, it was annoying to be proven wrong.”

“Agreed,” says Crowley. “Especially because I was managing just fine already. I’m used to it, anyway.”

“Exactly!” Naomi nods. “And how _dare_ people be correct about this thing actually working.” They share a grin of perfect understanding.

Yael rolls her eyes. “You’re both ridiculous. I love you, but you’re ridiculous.”

Aziraphale still looks a bit puzzled, but he smiles at Crowley and squeezes his hand under the table.

“So let’s talk about tomorrow,” says Naomi, cheerfully changing the subject. “Tomorrow we’ll go to the synagogue for the first reading of the M'gillah, and then we’ll come back here for the party.”

“Reading the scroll?” asks Aziraphale.

“Yes! The Scroll of Esther. It’s a lot of fun—people wear costumes, and they wave noisemakers and boo whenever Haman gets mentioned.”

Crowley’s focus sharpens. “Did you say Haman?”

“Yes, he was…oh wait, that reminds me!” She jumps up, then comes running back with a plateful of biscuits. “I made hamantaschen yesterday, but I forgot to share them last night.”

Crowley looks at the triangles and starts to laugh. “Please tell me these are making fun of his hat,” he says.

Naomi’s face lights up. “You know the story!”

“Remember it? Hah! I—” he catches himself “I know it _very_ well.”

Aziraphale smiles in sudden recognition. “Oh yes, the scroll of Esther, that makes perfect sense. Quite a brave young woman. And Mordechai is in there as well?”

“Yup! You should come to the reading tomorrow!” Naomi grins. “I promise you it will be very different from the last services you attended with us.”

“I’d love to,” says Aziraphale.

“Great! Crowley?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” It does sound entertaining, but his feet still itch at the memory of the church floor, even seventy years later.

“Well, if you change your mind, you’re always welcome. Anyway, try the hamantaschen!”

Crowley watches Aziraphale take a bite, then a bigger bite, eyes crinkling up in blissful enjoyment. It’s such a small thing, and the angel is so happy about it. Humans have invented so many small things that make the angel happy, and Crowley could love humanity for that alone.

“You must try one, my dear. They have poppyseed filling!”

Crowley obligingly takes a bite. He does like the faint bitterness of poppy seeds. And in a sense, he helped create these.

*****

That night, Crowley is still a little too restless to sleep. He paces a bit while Aziraphale, already sitting in bed, watches him.

“I’m sorry you can’t attend the reading tomorrow.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine. I was there for the original, I don’t need to sit through a retelling.”

“That’s right, I do remember running into you after the battles. In that bar, the one with the kebab stall out front and the lovely cocktails with orange blossom.” Aziraphale gives a happy sigh.

Crowley turns to look at him. “I saw you before that, but I stayed out of your way so you wouldn’t try thwarting me. Anyway, you were always talking to Mordechai, and he never liked me, probably because I spent so much time with Haman.”

“Yes, that would make sense. Come to think of it, I never did ask what you were doing over there. I know you too well to suspect that you had any part in Haman’s plans.”

“Well…you know how it is. Just gotta cause some trouble. I figured, get the king’s chief advisor into really stupid things, that’s a kind of trouble. Didn’t have as much luck as I’d have liked, though I did get him to waste a lot of time with astrology. Slowed down his genocide plans a bit that way, though obviously I had to word it differently to Headquarters. I think I told them I was encouraging the occult. And I managed to convince him that three-cornered hats were going to be all the rage any day now, just to mess with him.”

“I remember that hat. It wasn’t at all flattering.”

“And now it’s immortalized in pastry.”

“Such delicious pastry, too. Thank you for your part in that.”

Crowley sits on the bed next to Aziraphale. “So what were _you_ doing over there?”

“Observing, mostly.” The angel shifts in sudden discomfit. “I was under strict orders not to do anything. Just observe.”

“What, even if Esther hadn’t pulled it off? You’d have just let the massacre happen?”

“Well, I did have my orders…”

“You wouldn’t have stood back, though. Not if you could stop it.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I don’t know. I did hold back—with the Flood, and again at Sodom and Gomorrah. I still regret those. And I almost did at Armageddon as well.”

“But you didn’t, when it came down to it. You came back.” He presses his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m glad you came back.”

“As am I, dearest. But it was different when I knew you’d be there.”

He lifts his head and turns Aziraphale’s face gently towards his own, searching the angel’s eyes.

“Nah. You can’t tell me that if I’d gone off to Alpha Centauri or whatever, that you’d have just gone ‘oh well, back to the shining ranks of holy warriors for me.’ You’d have possessed that woman and gone to Tadfield anyway.” He kisses the angel before leaning back against his shoulder. “You’re braver than you think. You’ll complain about the rules and insist that something’s impossible right up to the moment where you have to take action, and then you’ll do whatever’s necessary.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything in response, and Crowley is still for moment, sitting with his memories.

“We really did do a lot of messing about with humans, didn’t we?” he asks.

“I suppose we did, at that. It was our job, after all. I’m not sure how much effect we actually had, but we certainly tried. Why do you bring it up?”

“Just thinking how they didn’t seem entirely real before. Humans. Now they do.”

“How so?”

“I mean, we took care of a boy for almost eleven years, and then we just sort of forgot about him because the job was done. And that was normal! We did that sort of thing all the time, for six thousand years. And now it seems strange.”

Aziraphale seems thoughtful. “Perhaps it’s because we saw how powerful humanity could be in Adam.”

Crowley considers this. “For my money, the really impressive ones were the other kids. They took on the Horsemen for no reason except that their friend asked them to. They didn’t care that he was the Antichrist, he was just part of their gang. And then they won.”

“That’s true. I suppose we have more to learn about humans than I had previously thought.”

Crowley likes the idea. Six thousand years, and there’s still more to learn. But he feels a bit guilty for all their interference in the past.

“It’s good that we’re free agents now. Humans have enough to deal with, without our old sides messing with them.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Does this mean you’re going to stop gluing rare coins to the sidewalk?”

“Of course not. That’s hilarious.” He pauses, then continues in a quieter voice. “But I’m glad they seem real now.”

Crowley has always liked humans, in the abstract. They never lose their capacity to surprise him, and that’s something that Crowley has learned to value, over the countless eons of his existence. Learning that individual humans can be as real to him as Dagon or Uriel (and much more likable) was startling, but that’s humans for you. It was probably inevitable that he’d start getting attached to individual people, since he’s always been so fond of the species.

But it’s a little unsettling, caring about humans. They’re so fragile, and their lives are so short. He shoves the thought away as hard as he can, and hopes that it won’t come back for a long time. 

*****

Crowley wakes up the following morning to see Aziraphale reading his new book.

“Learn anything interesting?”

The angel sets the book aside with a smile. “Yes, actually. Good morning, love. Feeling better today?”

“Yes, actually.” He mimics the angel’s voice and gets an adorably indignant look for his efforts. A thought occurs to him. “Be right back.”

Crowley leaves the puzzled angel in the guest room, and goes downstairs. He returns a few minutes later with a mug of tea and a plate of hamantaschen. He hands them to Aziraphale and slithers back under the blankets. “There. Now you can stay here a little longer and keep me warm.”

“You hardly need to bribe me to stay in bed with you, Crowley,” the angel says as he sips his tea and picks up a triangle.

“Are you complaining?”

“Oh, not at all.”

*****

When everyone leaves for the synagogue, Crowley accompanies them. He doesn’t go inside, but there’s a cafe next door, and with his enhanced hearing, he can pick up most of the reading. As much as anyone could, anyway—the words have become rather obscured by the end, what with the ever-growing din of noisemakers and shouting. It does sound rather entertaining in there. But burning his feet would do more than just hurt, it would also alert Naomi and Yael that he was a demon, and that would probably put a damper on their friendship.

He wonders how Haman would react to knowing that his name was being cursed all these centuries later. The man was self-important enough that he might have been flattered, if the attention were more serious and less open mockery. As it is, he’d probably be furious, knowing that the descendants of the people he tried to eliminate were still alive, and worse, making fun of his hat. Crowley almost wishes he could let the people in the synagogue know how successful they were. 

*****

The party starts soon after they return home. Crowley briefly considers trying to learn names this time, but decides against it. He’s not sure how many humans he wants to actually care about, and anyway, this is apparently another drinking holiday. He recognizes the married couple from the seder—the wife is wearing an extremely garish robe and has her hair in two buns, and her husband is dressed as Superman. The eldest daughter has a lightsaber, and the younger two are dressed as Mordechai and Esther. Their costumes look nothing like the clothing Crowley remembers from the period, but the children inform him that they are Mordechai and Esther, and he’s not going to be the one to correct them. Leya, the graduate student from Naomi’s office, isn’t in costume, but she’s brought a box of cashew sweets, making her Naomi and Aziraphale’s favorite guest.

Crowley’s several drinks in when Mirka and Lori arrive. At first Crowley doesn’t recognize Lori—they’re not wearing their glasses, and their Fourth Doctor costume is a surprisingly close resemblance, though their face is a little rounder and their skin and hair are darker. Mirka is dressed as Yehudit, complete with a paper mache head of Holofernes and—“Is that an actual sword?” asks Aziraphale.

“It is! I won it in a knitting contest back when I was a kid.”

“You never told me you could knit,” says Lori.

“I can’t!” She grins at her confused friends. “It’s a long story, ask me again after we’ve had a few drinks.”

Crowley goes to refill his and Aziraphale’s wineglasses. When he returns, Aziraphale and Mirka are deep in a discussion on intellectual property law, of all things. Lori is hovering nearby, looking bemused. Crowley hands Aziraphale his glass, and the angel accepts it with a distracted thank you. He slips his arm around Crowley’s waist in an absentminded embrace, still engrossed in the differences between American fair use and British fair dealing. Amused, Crowley wraps his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and kisses the angel’s cheek.

Seeing this, Mirka’s face lights up. “Yes! you guys finally came out!”

“Came out?” Aziraphale whispers to Crowley in confusion. Crowley remembers Yael explaining the term during Sukkot.

“As lesbians,” he whispers back. Aziraphale gives him a puzzled look, and he shrugs.

Aziraphale smiles at the two students. “We’re very happy together,” he says. If Crowley had said those words, they would have sounded dismissive, but Aziraphale is so obviously sincere that it sounds like a simple statement of fact. Which, Crowley realizes, it is.

Lori smiles. “Congrats guys, that’s awesome.” They sigh, mostly theatrically, but with the faintest tinge of resentment. “I guess it’s just me left to be single and bitter.”

“Hey, I’m single too!” says Mirka.

“Yeah, but you said that’s just because you’re too busy for a relationship.”

“I meant that I was too busy to try _looking_ for a relationship. I’d totally say yes if someone I liked asked me out!”

“It still doesn’t count if you’re not bitter about it,” says Lori.

Crowley is too sober to listen to this, so he goes to say hello to the children. Along with the three he recognizes from the seder and Chanukah, there’s two new ones as well: another girl dressed up as Esther, and a boy claiming to be Jonah, complete with stuffed whale. They talk Crowley into playing several rounds of Uno, a card game that might make sense if the children could explain it in an organized fashion, but they’re too busy interrupting and correcting each other’s explanations for Crowley to understand the rules. He compensates by blatantly cheating, which the kids think is hilarious. They attempt to cheat as well, mostly by hiding cards in extremely conspicuous places in their costumes and trying out ridiculous distractions. He really does like kids.

*****

By the time he extricates himself from the game, Crowley is ready for another drink. As he’s filling his glass, Lori approaches.

“Hey, uh, sorry for derailing the congratulations over your coming out. I really am happy for you guys.” They sigh. “Sometimes I mean to say something positive and then exactly the wrong thing slips out.”

“I know the feeling.”

Lori’s mouth quirks into a half-smile. “The first time I came over for dinner here I tried to pick a fight with Mirka and the rest about how there’s no such thing as miracles. But instead of getting mad, Naomi sided with me, even though I’m pretty sure she believes in god, just for the fun of debating.”

“You’re an atheist?” Crowley’s always liked atheists. The worst ones were no worse than any other group of people, and the best ones made pretty convincing arguments for why he, Crowley, definitely didn’t exist. 

Lori shrugs. “Sort of? I mean, I don’t believe in god or magic or anything.”

“But you’re…” he waves around the room.

“Well, yeah, but there’s nothing saying you have to believe in god to be Jewish.”

“I’ve even known converts who didn’t believe,” adds Naomi, inserting herself into the conversation. “There’s a lot of ways of being Jewish.”

“How does that work?” asks Crowley.

Lori answers first. “Generally, it’s about your heritage. If your mother’s Jewish, so are you.”

“It doesn’t have to be your mother,” says Mirka, seizing the chance to quibble.

“Well, traditionally it was.”

“No, because there’s people like Guo Yong,” she tilts her head towards Superman, “and the other Jews from Kaifeng. And the Karaites use patrilineal descent too.”

Lori rolls their eyes. “Okay, _fine_. You have to have a Jewish parent and people will usually give you an easier time if it’s your mom.”

“You’re forgetting converts,” says Mirka.

“Okay, so you have to be either born Jewish or want to be Jewish enough that you’re willing to do the homework. _Better?_ ”

“I don’t know…” says Naomi. “Are we going to include the Jews for Jesus?”

“I think a lot of them were never actually Jewish,” says Lori.

“What about other Christian converts?” asks Mirka. “I think if you formally convert to another religion, you’re probably not Jewish anymore.”

“What about the conversos?” asks Naomi.

“Well, they didn’t mean it, right? They were forced to by the Spanish Inquisition.”

Even though Crowley didn’t actually cause that, he still feels a brief pang of guilt over his commendation.

“Yes, but you know how serious oaths are. You can’t just take them back,” says Naomi.

“But isn’t that why we have Kol Nidre?” Lori returns to the debate. “To release us from oaths made under duress?”

“Okay, so wait,” says Mirka. “You’re Jewish if you’re born Jewish, or if you convert, but not if you convert to Christianity or other religions, unless it’s under duress and you’re secretly still Jewish. Are we missing anything?”

Now that Mirka is trying to make a definition, Lori switches to looking for exceptions. “What if your grandmother was a converso, and now you want to be Jewish? Do you have to convert?”

Crowley realizes two things. One, he’s more confused than ever, and two, he doesn’t actually care. He turns to Naomi and asks, “Do all of your holidays involve arguing?”

She grins. “I prefer to think of it as healthy debate. And yes, many of them of them do. Not so much Yom Kippur.”

“Don’t forget the food!” Mirka’s addition elicits a nod from Naomi.

“Again, not so much Yom Kippur. But yes, good food and spirited debate are the best ways to celebrate.”

“And saying ‘fuck you, we’re still here!’ to everyone who tried to kill us!” Lori adds.

Mirka, unsurprisingly, disagrees. “That’s not every holiday, that’s just Pesach, Purim, and Chanukah.”

“I think,” says Naomi quietly, “That it is every holiday. Because despite all their efforts, we are still here, and still observing our holy days. Being alive to celebrate together is a fuck you all of its own.”

Mirka grins and asks, “Should you be saying that in front of the baby?”

“I have no problem with my child growing up saying ‘fuck you’ to anti-Semites.”

Lori leans over. “You hear that, Miriam? We’re going to teach you to punch Nazis when you get older.”

“ _I_ think it’s better to practice nonviolent activism and institutional change,” says Mirka.

“Mirka, I saw you threaten a Proud Boy with a piece of rebar just last week.”

“He was harassing an old lady! He should be glad I didn’t have my sword!”

“See, you’re just being contrarian.” They continue to bicker, and Crowley escapes while he still can.

*****

From his corner by the radiator, he sees Yael take Miriam upstairs. When she returns, she spots him on the sofa and walks over.

“Naomi says that all of your holidays are a fuck you,” he says, just to see her reaction.

Yael nods. “Not just the holidays. Our very existence.” She gestures at the room. “The world is full of people who want us dead, for being Jewish or queer or just disobedient. Some days it feels overwhelming, to be honest. But as long as we’re alive, we’re winning. As long as any of us are alive. And right now we’re still here, celebrating with our loved ones, and the kids are eating too many cookies, and Naomi and Zira are probably talking about books, and they still haven’t killed us. Our very existence is a victory.”

She sips at her wine, looking a little self-conscious. “Sorry, I guess you touched a nerve.”

“It’s fine. I like the idea.” Their survival—his, Aziraphale’s, the world’s—day after day, a victory.

He raises his glass. “To refusing to shut up and die.”

Yael smiles. “I’ll drink to that."

She takes another sip, and watches him toss back a glass of wine and pour himself a fresh one.

“You’re certainly getting into the spirit of the holiday,” she says.

“What, drinking?”

“Well, that’s part of it, anyway. You’re supposed to drink until you can’t tell Haman from Mordechai.”

He thinks about how different the two men had been. “That’s going to take a lot more wine.”

“It’s just a saying, Crowley. Please don’t give yourself alcohol poisoning.”

He waves his free hand. “Don’t worry, I could outdrink anyone here. ‘Cept maybe Az—Zira.”

The angel is deep in conversation with Superman and Naomi, but he looks up when Crowley says his name. Catching his eye across the room, Aziraphale smiles at him, face glowing with affection. The angel’s love feels almost tangible, like a summer sunbeam, and Crowley’s breath catches. He tries to make his answering smile more insouciant than besotted, but he can tell he’s failing to pull it off. He turns to Yael and glares.

“Don’t say a word.”

She raises an eyebrow, and as usual, he crumbles in the face of her friendly silence.

“Okay, yes, I’m disgustingly soppy. When does _this_ go away?”

Yael smiles. “For some people, almost immediately. For most people, it fades at least a little after a couple months or years. But, to be honest, I still get all gooey when Naomi smiles at me, and we’ve been together for over a decade. Her parents are even worse, and their fiftieth anniversary was last year. So it really depends.”

Crowley contemplates another six thousand years of this. He’ll never admit it out loud, but the thought is rather appealing. He’s not going to stop being annoyed about it, of course, but he likes the idea of getting to be annoyed about it for another six millennia. Or more. However long they’re given, he’ll take.

Even if it means being embarrassed by his own soppiness.

Or embarrassed on Aziraphale’s behalf, like he’s about to be. He recognizes that handkerchief flourish. At least the angel probably doesn’t have a dove in his pocket.

“Oh nice, Zira’s doing his magic act! I’ve been wanting to see it ever since Naomi told me about it.” Yael looks genuinely excited.

“You realize he’s terrible at it, right?” Crowley asks, as Aziraphale pulls a coin from somewhere vaguely near Leya’s ear. The crowd of mostly intoxicated adults claps and exclaims.

“Yes, but it’s adorable,” says Yael.

It kind of is. That makes it even more annoying.

*****

With the magic show in full swing, Crowley makes a strategic retreat upstairs. He finds himself in Naomi’s study, staring at the little azalea he gave her. True to Naomi’s predictions, it has flourished, and he can see at least a dozen buds starting to form. The card she’d pinned to its pot is still there:

PLEASE BE NICE TO ME.

I DESERVE LOVE.

“Yes, fine, Naomi was right. You’re actually a good plant. ’m sorry. Shouldn’tave yelled at you so much.” This. This is what he has come to. Drunkenly apologizing to a plant. This is what comes of spending time with humans, and worse, an angel. More than just spending time with an angel.

“’m the worst demon,” he informs the azalea. It exudes an air of sympathy.

“Then again, Yael says I’m winning. It’s all about rebellion, right? Of course I’m ridiculously in love with an angel. I’m just that good at disobedience.” He takes the azalea’s silence for agreement.

Thus buoyed, he saunters cheerfully back towards the party, only to run into Aziraphale on the stairs. The angel is wearing a look of mild concern that turns to relief when he sees Crowley.

“I was just coming to find you. Is everything all right?”

Crowley kisses him. It’s nice, so he does it again. “Everything is excellent.” Another kiss, since Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind. “Tickety-boo, even.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Just how drunk are you, dearest?”

“Little bit.” He pulls back to consider the angel. “You sobered up.”

“I was worried when you disappeared.”

“Just needed a break.” One last kiss. “We can go back now.”

*****

Downstairs, Mirka is entertaining the children with the story of her most recent arrest.

“Just how often does she get arrested?” Crowley asks Naomi.

“Oh, all the time. She’s involved in a lot of direct action and civil disobedience, and sometimes that involves being strategically arrested. Fortunately, half the law school faculty adore her, so she never lacks for legal representation.”

“And the other half are counting down the days until she graduates and they never have to deal with her again,” says Lori.

Naomi smiles. “Well, that’s Mirka for you. You either love her or find her deeply annoying.”

“Or both,” murmurs Lori to themself, quietly enough that only demonic hearing can pick it up. They’re looking across the room with a mixture of annoyance and longing. It’s an emotion that Crowley recognizes from the inside out.

Too drunk to hide his exasperation, he says, “Just tell her, for Satan’s sake.”

Lori gives him a strange look. “Did you seriously just say ‘for Satan’s sake’?”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“It’s just a figure of speech!”

“Maybe if you’re a Satanist.”

Crowley makes a face. “I would never be anything that tacky.” Crowley has never been able to talk to a Satanist without feeling a huge wave of secondhand embarrassment.

Lori is still looking at him skeptically. He sighs.

“You’re trying to change the subject.”

“Um, yeah. I’m glad you and your boyfriend finally worked things out, but that doesn’t make you an expert on my personal life.”

“Look. Human person. I would not be suggesting this if I wasn’t extremely confident that your interest was reciprocated.” He’s rather proud of himself for getting “reciprocated” out on the first try.

Lori grins. “Human person. I like that. That’s officially my new gender: ‘human person.’ But that still doesn’t mean you’re right about Mirka.”

“Fine. Then you might as well get it over with now, when there’s an open bar you can drown your sorrows in if the impossible happens and she says no.”

Lori snorts, but they’re looking thoughtful. Crowley can tell that they’re tempted. He grins. This is what he’s good at.

“Do you really want to waste six thousand years making the both of you miserable?”

Lori wavers. “Why are you so confident that it’s both of us, anyway?”

Crowley’s smile is tinged with self-mockery. “It turns out, these things can be a lot more obvious from the outside than they look from within.”

“Hah. I’ll think about it.” As they walk away, Crowley hears a giggle to his left. He turns to see Naomi’s extremely smug smile and Yael’s look of quiet amusement.

“It’s hard enough keeping Naomi from meddling,” Yael says, attempting to look stern. “Now she’s got you doing it. She’s a bad influence on you.”

“I have been meddling longer than—for a very long time.” says Crowley. “I am the _original_ bad influence.”

“What, are you going to offer us an apple?” says Naomi.

He waves a hand. “Been there, done that.” The two women just giggle.

*****

From his favorite spot near the radiator, Crowley watches Lori pull Mirka aside. They exchange a few words, then they disappear into the kitchen. When they emerge sometime later, they’re both blushing, looking at each other and then away, smiling and giggling. They say their goodbyes immediately after, holding hands as they walk out the door.

Crowley grins. Temptation accomplished.

*****

Later, the party is over and it’s just the two of them in the guest room.

“Aaaaangell!” Crowley says, arms around Aziraphale, nuzzling his neck. “You smell nice. I love you!”

“You’re drunk, Crowley,” replies Aziraphale with tolerant amusement.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“I already knew it was true, my dearest. But you’re still intoxicated.”

“Am not. I’ll prove it by trying to sober up.” He does so, and becomes noticeably more sober. “Okay, yes, never mind.” He buries his nose in Aziraphale’s hair, feeling overwhelmed. He loves this angel so stupidly much. He's just going to have to get used to it. 

“I do, you know. Love you.” 

“I love you too. As you’re well aware. Are you coming to bed?”

“Right. Yes. Bed.” Still a bit tipsy, he falls sideways, pulling them both down onto the bed with a happy sigh. Aziraphale sits up and strokes Crowley’s hair, humming quietly to himself.

“Whatcha thinkin ‘bout?”

“I was remembering the first time we slept in this bed. You were rather intoxicated then as well.”

“Ssnot my fault they have these drinking holidays.”

“I’m not complaining, my love, just remembering. You hung around my neck and announced that we might as well be a couple, since everyone thought we already were.”

“Can’t blame a demon for hoping.”

“At the time, I thought you were making fun.”

The sheer ridiculousness of the statement causes Crowley to sit up and stare at him. “You thought _what_?”

“Since I was under the thankfully mistaken impression that you were uninterested, I just assumed you found the entire idea ridiculous and were making fun of it.”

Crowley lets this sink in for a moment. It becomes no less absurd. He groans and buries his head in the angel’s lap.

“We’re both idiots. Just, utter idiots.”

Aziraphale kisses the top of his head. “We worked it out in the end.”

*****

“So,” says Naomi, “are you coming to Passover this year? I know it’s only a month away, but we’d love to have you if you can make the trip!”

“We’d be delighted,” says Aziraphale. “I’ll bring more wine.”

Naomi looks at Crowley. “Well?”

“What, you mean I have a choice?” 

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. “Of course you do. You’re still here.”

He is, somehow. They are all still alive, somehow. The world didn’t end, and none of the people who want them dead have succeeded.

He smiles back. “Then yeah. I’ll be there.”

It feels like a victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second-to-last chapter! And the final one is already half written. 
> 
> I wrote up the scene where they visit the used bookstore, but it didn't quite fit in the chapter so I spun it off as a standalone. You can read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21246929) if you're interested. 
> 
> I've mentioned this before, but the character of Mirka is my affectionate tribute to the [Hereville graphic novels](http://hereville.com), about the adventures of an 11 year-old troll-fighting Orthodox Jewish girl. They're funny and sweet and worth checking out. 
> 
> Anyway, thank for reading thus far. I hope you enjoyed!


	9. The Joy is in the Asking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Here is the requested explanation of Jewish terms for the chapter.](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/262133617) It's a separate comment so that you can read it ahead of time and not be spoiled. Or read it afterwards. Or not at all!

They emerge from the data stream into a bright and cold New York afternoon. A round-faced teenage girl with frizzy dark hair and glasses is holding a phone and bouncing with delight. “You made it!”

“Of course we did,” says Crowley, accepting the offered hug. “How’s my favorite human?”

“Where did you bring us, my dear?” asks Aziraphale.

“We’re right behind the school building—classes just let out for the day, and I told the moms you would pick me up from school after you got in.”

Miriam had learned the truth about them years ago. They hadn’t made a deliberate choice to tell her, but children are curious and Miriam is a bright child. Though, as she pointed out, it didn’t take a genius to tell that something was up, when Crowley kept forgetting his sunglasses over videochat and Aziraphale kept getting carried away with the miracles. By the time she was eight, the girl had figured out enough to ask them directly, and neither Crowley nor Aziraphale was willing to lie to her face. They’d expected her to tell her mothers, but Miriam, taking after Yael, had decided that immortality was a personal thing, and had offered her solemn promise not to tell their secret. 

As they cross the school grounds, a few children wave to them. Some of her classmates recognize Miriam’s uncles from previous visits. She’s brought both of them in to school on multiple occasions. Crowley keeps expecting Miriam to reach an age where she’s embarrassed by her weird magical uncles, but she still brings them to school whenever she can: for school plays, family days, and a parent-teacher conference that her mothers were unable to attend (neither the teacher nor the principal has fully recovered). She’d convinced Aziraphale to come in for Career Day to talk about owning a bookshop, and she once brought Crowley in for a very entertaining show and tell, terrifying and delighting her classmates with the giant black python that seemed (mostly) tame.

As they walk through the school gates, one of Miriam’s friends shouts, “See you tomorrow!”

“Which one is that again?” asks Crowley.

“That’s Mariah. She moved here last year.”

“Is she the one with a crush on Aziraphale?”

“Excuse me?!” says the startled angel.

“You couldn’t tell?” asks Crowley, but Miriam preempts any answer Aziraphale might have made.

“No, that was Adelaide, and she’s _finally_ gotten over that. Mariah’s the one who wants to know which of you was my sperm donor.”

There’s a brief silence as Aziraphale and Crowley try to process that.

“I assume you told her that she was asking an inappropriately personal question?” asks Aziraphale.

“Nope! I just told her that if she paid attention next time she saw you guys, she’d probably be able to tell. So if she’s staring at you funny tomorrow, that’s why.”

Crowley feels a surge of pride. “Well done.”

“Isn’t that a little unkind?” asks Aziraphale, failing to sound particularly stern.

“That’s what she gets for asking an inappropriately personal question. Anyway, you guys are more like my dads than Uncle Eli’s ex-boyfriend, so it’s only a _little_ misleading. And I want to see which one of you she guesses.”

*****

A few blocks after they exit the subway, Miriam stops. “Actually, before we go home, I have a favor to ask…” she trails off.

“Yes?” Aziraphale prompts her gently. But it’s Crowley’s gaze that she’s avoiding.

“I’m super-happy that you’re coming to my bat mitzvah party, but…I’d really, really like you to come to my Torah reading. Both of you.”

“Erm,” says Crowley. “You know why that’s a bad idea.”

“But I don’t think it is!” she says. “You’ve only ever tried Christian consecrated ground, not a synagogue.”

“Yes, but—”

“So I did research! I asked three rabbis—mom, zayde, and Rabbi Wolf—about it.”

“Wait, what?”

“As a, um, hypothetical! Whether a demon who was actually a good person—”

“Excuse me.”

“Whatever. Anyway, like I was saying, I asked them if a demon who was a good person should be allowed in the synagogue. Rabbi Wolf was all for it, you know how she is about welcoming everybody. Yael made me think really hard about what makes someone a good person, but after we talked about it she agreed. Zayde was hardest to convince, because he wanted me to identify what _kind_ of demon. But then he said that traditionally demons weren’t completely evil, and so long as they weren’t tempting anyone into doing evil or not doing good, they should probably be allowed in.”

“Do you think they wondered why you were asking such a specific hypothetical question?” asks Aziraphale. Miriam grins.

“Nah. Just a couple weeks ago I asked whether inviting a vampire inside a neighborhood’s eruv meant they could come in all the houses inside it. They’re used to questions like that from me.”

Aziraphale looks intrigued. “What did they say about the eruv?”

“Excuse me,” says Crowley again. “The hypothetical is nice and all, but these are my feet we’re talking about.”

“It’s not just a hypothetical! I’ve made a convincing argument that you should be able to enter the synagogue without being burned.”

“I don’t think you’ll be able to convince God, though,” he says. Miriam folds her arms and gets a stubborn look on her face.

“Too bad for Him then, because He’s outnumbered. And _I_ have citations. It’s like when Mr. Pauley didn’t like my paper topic but had to give me an A because I had so many primary sources.”

“I still think you should have let me scare him,” says Crowley.

“I'm pretty sure you did scare him at the parent-teacher conference.”

“You should have let me scare him more, then.”

Miriam gives him a stern look. “You’re changing the subject.”

“I’m trying to, anyway. Look. The thing about eternal damnation is that it’s eternal. Unchangeable. If it was possible to argue your way out of it, there wouldn’t be nearly so many demons. Or solicitors. Lawyers, I mean.” Hell had fewer attorneys than one might expect, but the ones it did have were extremely annoying.

Miriam rolls her eyes. “I _know_ what a solicitor is. We get the BBC here on streaming, remember?”

“They used to be called pettifoggers, did you know that?” It’s not his best attempt at deflection, but Miriam does like learning new words, and sometimes she can be distracted with them.

Unfortunately, this appears to be one of those times where nothing can dislodge her. She looks up at him, eyes wide and pleading behind her glasses.

“ _Please_? Just try stepping inside, and if it even starts to tickle you can jump right back out. Just once. Please? I really want you there. It’s _important_ to me.”

"Arrgh." He sighs. “Fine.”

It’s bad enough that Aziraphale can still get him to do anything just by looking sad (or even mildly put out), but he’s loved Aziraphale for six thousand years. This small human is barely even thirteen, the tiniest fraction of his long existence, and Crowley still keeps finding himself agreeing to all sorts of ridiculous things, just to avoid disappointing her. It’s embarrassing, is what it is. It’s a good thing Hell still isn’t speaking to him, because along with the eternal torment or quick oblivion they’d like to subject him to, they’d also never let him live this down.

The temple is less than a block away. Crowley looks at it with trepidation. At least they aren’t using a Christian church, so there’s no risk of holy water. He doesn’t think. No, Aziraphale wouldn’t let him enter a place with holy water.

“Are you really sure about this?” he asks. “I’ll do it, I said I would and all, but I think it’s going to be a waste of everyone's time. And my feet.”

Miriam reaches in her backpack and retrieves a folder. “I have references right here. We get to say who’s welcome at our temple, and Rabbi Wolf has invited you for tomorrow _and_ said demons are welcome, so long as they’re good. If Hashem has a problem with it, He’d better provide supporting material.”

Crowley doubts God is even listening. Or that She’s listened at all in the last few millennia. She certainly hasn’t said anything, if She has.

He shrugs. Might as well call Her bluff. Oh-so-casually, he saunters right into the building.

Nothing happens.

He looks down at his perfectly comfortable feet. “Huh.”

Miriam starts bouncing and waving her hands with excitement. “I told you it would work! I knew it! You can come tomorrow!”

*****

When they reach the brownstone, Naomi and Yael are both there to greet them. There’s gray in their hair—in all of Naomi’s hair—and traces of lines on their faces, but Naomi is still full of her cheerful energy, and Yael has managed to not let parenting destroy her aura of calm.

“Guess what!” Miriam is still overflowing with excitement. “Crowley’s going to come tomorrow!”

Naomi blinks in obvious surprise, and Yael’s eyebrows go up.

“Really? _”_ asks Naomi, looking at Crowley. He shrugs.

“Guess I can make an exception, this once.”

Yael and Naomi exchange a look so obviously laden with meaning that it make Crowley instantly suspicious.

“What?” he snaps.

“It’s nothing,” Yael starts to say, then stops. “Actually, it’s that Naomi is dying to ask you why, and I’m trying to telepathically remind her not to pry.”

“Since when do you have psychic powers?” he asks.

“I don’t. So I’ll have to resort to using my words, of all things. You really don’t need to tell us.”

Crowley shrugs. He can’t explain the demon thing, and he doesn’t want to admit that he’s an utter pushover.

“I’d rather not,” he admits.

“Then I won’t ask,” Naomi says seriously. “Sorry to put you on the spot.” A faint beeping noise comes from the kitchen. “Whoops, it’s time to take the challah out!”

“Oh!” says Aziraphale. “Did you make one with raisins?”

“Of course!”

Yael smiles fondly as Naomi and Aziraphale hurry into the kitchen. “She only puts raisins in when you two are going to be here for Shabbat,” she tells Crowley.

“You don’t like raisins?”

“I’m neutral on raisins. And Naomi likes them fine, she just doesn’t bother when it’s just us here.”

“ _I_ don’t like raisins,” says Miriam. “Not in challah, anyway.”

“That’s why she makes the other one plain. Now, can you help me set up for Shabbat, or do you need to unwind first?”

“I can help.”

Crowley watches them prepare the candles and wine and fetch the freshly-baked loaves from the kitchen. He’s never going to join in their prayers, but he’s developed an odd fondness for watching the rituals, if only because they’re a part of his favorite humans’ lives. 

*****

That evening, he goes for a walk with Aziraphale. It’s cold, though not as cold as January should be. It never is, anymore. But Crowley’s still glad to have the gloves and scarf that he’s kept in pristine condition for thirteen years. (He lost one of the socks—not even demons can avoid that fate—but by now he’s received a dozen or so other pairs from Harry and Deborah to make up for it.)

They’re both quiet tonight, each preoccupied with his own thoughts. Crowley can’t help worrying that something is wrong, but when he gives Aziraphale an anxious glance, the angel seems thoughtful rather than unhappy, and Crowley makes himself relax.

Things aren’t perfect. Just as Yael warned him years ago, the cracks haven’t gone away. He still wakes up sometimes in a panic, and he still gets sad or angry for no apparent reason, and the oddest things can knock him off-kilter and throw his entire nervous system out of whack for a day. And sometimes Aziraphale will overhear a certain kind of loud laughter, or a particular tone of voice, or something inside his own memory, and he’ll curl up into himself and go distant. They’ve both learned what they can say and do to help each other, and they’ve also learned that sometimes they can’t do anything but wait. But Crowley doesn’t need things to be perfect. He just needs this—the earth, its people, and the angel standing next to him. He’s happy, most of the time. More than that. He’s content.

It might be the most undemonic thing about him, more than imagination, even more than love. Demons are allowed to feel joy—especially if someone else is miserable—but this soft everyday happiness is something else entirely. The Fallen were discontented with Heaven itself, and are no more satisfied with Hell. No demon, whether Satan himself or the lowest imp, can look at his lot and think, _this is enough_. Except Crowley.

He bumps his shoulder against Aziraphale’s affectionately. The angel turns to smile at him, and Crowley is momentarily so overwhelmed with love that he has to remind his corporeal heart and lungs to keep working. _That_ hasn’t gone away either, and Crowley has mostly given up feeling embarrassed by it. He kisses Aziraphale, several times, and then they just stand there, arms around each other, listening to the sounds of the city.

“What were you thinking about?” he asks.

“Quite a lot of things. Mostly that I’ve been so much luckier than I deserve,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley looks at him, appalled. “Absolute bollocks. You deserve all this and cake.” The angel smiles again, the reaction Crowley was hoping for.

“I do like cake.”

“Good thing there’s a bakery right across the street.”

Aziraphale looks in the direction of Crowley’s wave and sees the bakery. “That’s new—I vaguely recall that being a mobile repair shop. Did you know this was here?”

“Naomi might have mentioned it. She says it just opened, and she’s hoping it will turn out to be good.”

“I suppose we’ll have to investigate and let her know.” Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and practically skips across the street.

Inside the warm, well-lit bakery, watching Aziraphale try to decide between a chocolate-orange mousse cake and an apple-quince tart (eventually getting both), Crowley is glad that the world still exists.

*****

In the morning, he wakes up draped over Aziraphale’s legs. _Oh good, you’re still here._ Aziraphale notices that he’s awake and bends forward to kiss him.

“Ready to get up, dearest?”

“No.” Then he remembers. “Argh, but I have to, don’t I?”

The angel smiles down at him. “I’m afraid so. Unless you’ve changed your mind about attending.” As if Miriam would let him.

Crowley rolls out of bed, miracles up some clothes. He frowns at the sight of his reflection, and then he’s wearing a suit. It’s a special occasion, after all. Then he follows Aziraphale down the stairs to where the others are waiting.

As they walk to the temple, Crowley notices that Miriam is still antsy and distracted. He slows down to walk next to her.

“Relax. You’re going to do fine,” he says quietly.

“And if I don’t?” she whispers back.

“Then no one will remember because oh no, how did that giant snake get in here?”

She giggles and says “Promise?”

“Hell, I might do it just for fun.”

“You better not! Only if I mess up.”

Oh _fine_ , if you insist.”

Naomi raises an eyebrow at their whispered conversation. “What are you two plotting?” she asks.

“Crowley says he’ll distract everyone if I mess up.”

“How very considerate of him!” Yael says. Naomi grins.

“One might even say, altruistic!” she says. Naomi and Yael try to avoid calling him “nice” or good,” even though his indignation is mostly for show, but they’ve decided that any word with more than four letters is fair game. It should be annoying, and he puts up a decent show of scowling and muttering, but Crowley not-so-secretly enjoys the teasing. Perhaps it’s the novelty of someone discovering a weak point and not using it against him. Maybe it’s that the joke never fails to elicit a chuckle from Aziraphale, with that fond smile that always warms Crowley all the way to his fingertips and scaly toes. Or it could just be because he knows that if he ever seriously asked them to stop, they would. 

“Did he say how he was going to do that?” Naomi asks.

“Umm…”

Crowley smiles his best serpent grin. “Oh, I have a few ideas.”

“I know you’ll do great, and I’m extremely proud of you, but I have to admit I’m curious now,” Naomi says to her daughter.

“When are you _not_ , sweet?” Yael asks, taking her wife’s hand. 

“Let me think about that and get back to you.”

Crowley notices that Miriam is much more relaxed now, and allows himself a flash of professional pride. He might be retired, but he can still nudge humans along when he wants to. He just doesn’t have to justify how or why anymore.

*****

Even after the previous day’s test, Crowley hesitates for the barest second before stepping inside the temple. He doesn’t think anyone noticed, not until Yael looks at him with mild concern and says, “You really don’t have to if you’re uncomfortable. No matter how much Miriam pressures you.”

He studies the floor, safely inert beneath his feet.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would.” He looks back up at her. “I’m still not saying any of the prayers, though.”

She smiles. “No one expects you to.”

Inside, there are a surprising amount of familiar faces. Crowley realizes that he recognizes a lot of these people, from parties and dinners and just spending time at Naomi and Yael’s home. He even remembers some of their names. They’re all delighted to see him there, smiling and clapping him on the shoulder and clasping his hand and kissing him on the cheek. They’re so tactile, these humans. There’s a whisper in the back of his head saying _they wouldn’t welcome you like this if they knew what you are_ , but it’s not entirely convincing. Miriam had said that Rabbi Wolf was all for welcoming demons in the name of inclusivity, and having met the woman before, Crowley doesn’t doubt it.

Someone offers him a prayer book, and after a brief hesitation, he takes it. He declines the offer of a kippah, though Aziraphale does not.

“I thought you had to be one of them to wear that,” he says, as the angel pins the circle of blue cloth to his head.

“Nope!” says Naomi cheerfully. “It varies by branch and by community, but we’re pretty easygoing about kippot here. Anyone can wear one—it’s a way of showing our respect for God.” Seeing the look on Crowley’s face, she smiles. “Don’t worry, it’s not mandatory!”

“The hat or the respect?” Crowley asks.

“Either! Just don’t be rude—to the people, I mean. If you need to be rude to God, that’s fine.”

“Oh, I’m far past needing permission for _that_.”

“You don’t say,” murmurs Yael. Crowley sticks his tongue out at her.

*****

Standing, and then sitting, and then standing again among the wooden benches—pews? Do synagogues have pews? He’s not entirely sure—Crowley listens to the humans sing their prayers. The congregation isn’t large—maybe thirty people all told—and six of them are singing, up there on the platform. At first, he’s not particularly interested in their song. The harmony is lovely enough—it’s as close to perfect as humans can get—and thus it’s rather boring. True harmony is forever beyond his reach, and this vague human approximation isn’t close enough to be painful or even particularly interesting.

Then the rest of the congregation joins in. Some of them are in tune. Many of them are not. Some people are silently mouthing the words, some are just humming, and some can manage the first and last words of each line but keep getting bogged down in the rest of the Hebrew. One person is singing off the wrong page, and several are flipping through the prayer book trying to find the correct section. All the while attempting to sing along and hoping they’ve guessed correctly. The woman in front of Crowley is singing the correct words in a rather nice voice, but she’s clearly learned a different melody from the rest of them. It’s a glorious mess.

Out of the noise, an odd feeling rises in him. He looks at Aziraphale to see if he’s noticed, but the angel’s eyes are closed, and he’s singing along. There’s something bright and warm in the air, and for a panicked second Crowley thinks that some heavenly power is about to descend. But nothing burns. It’s not coming from Heaven, God is as absent as ever, and the only angel in the room is the one standing next to him. And yet, something feels a little like holiness, or grace, like all the things forever denied him.It’s connected to the humans, but he isn’t sure how they can do this—he knows for a fact that at least three of the people in this room are atheists! The feeling surrounds him, something snaps into place, and for one glowing instant Crowley is part of the whole. He understands, knows how it is that people live and feel and reach for the sacred and how they’re still human the entire time. The singing stops, but it’s still there, hanging in the silence. Then it’s gone, the connection slipping away, and he’s still the demon Crowley, albeit somewhat lightheaded.

He knows that he needs to consider this, think through all the implications, but it will have to wait. A short chubby thirteen year-old has been called up to do her Torah reading, and he wants to give her his full attention.

*****

The brunch and subsequent party held that afternoon is not large, though it could have been. Miriam is reasonably popular at school, and there are dozens of adults—friends, family, and former students of her mothers—who would have come to her bat mitzvah celebration if given the chance. But crowds make her anxious, and neither she nor her mothers are excited by lavish parties. So the guest list was small—a half-dozen children, not quite twice as many adults—and the thirteen year-old girl seems relaxed and happy to circulate among them. Crowley notes with amusement that the schoolfriend of Miriam’s they saw yesterday has placed the two of them under close observation, looking for any trace of family resemblance. 

“I thought she did quite a good job on her reading,” comments Aziraphale.

Miriam read her Torah portion with commendable fluency and confidence. After all their long-distance practice with her over the last few years, Crowley isn’t surprised, but he is rather proud. And if the faint trace of an accent in her Hebrew had struck anyone in the audience as odd, well, it would have sounded rather familiar to anyone back in the Second Temple. He and Aziraphale had done their best to update their accents, but it was easy to slip back into the dialect they’d spoken the most.

A fork clinks on a glass, and the room grows quiet enough for Miriam to give a short speech thanking everyone for coming. She concludes by saying, “and I want to say an especially big thank you to my uncles, who came all the way from England! Zira, Crowley, you’re the best!” Everyone claps. Aziraphale is beaming. Crowley isn’t sure what his face looks like, but Naomi takes one look at it and bursts into laughter.

“I’m looking forward to her reaching the sardonic teenager stage,” he mutters.

Naomi hears him and laughs harder, Yael smiling alongside her.

“Embarrassing as it may have been, she’s right to thank you,” says Yael. “We're glad you could make it.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised. We’ve been visiting every other month for over a decade,” says Crowley. “Sometimes more.”

“And we wouldn’t miss such a special occasion,” says Aziraphale.

Naomi sighs. “I can’t believe it’s been thirteen years already.”

“They grow up so quickly,” says Aziraphale with a tinge of sadness. Humans grow up and old so fast, and neither he nor Crowley has figured out how to deal with that. They’ve briefly discussed the topic, but haven’t settled on a resolution. Crowley knows that when the inevitable happens, he’s not going to handle it well at all.

“They do,” says Yael.

“And yet,” says Naomi with a mischievous smile, “you and Crowley haven’t aged a day.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged panicked glances. “Well, ah...”

Naomi’s shoulders shake as she tries to contain her laughter. Yael sighs, giving her wife a look full of love and exasperation in equal measure. “Sweetheart, we agreed not to pry, remember?”

Naomi stifles her laughter, though she can’t suppress her smile. “It’s hardly prying to comment on the obvious!” Yael raises an eyebrow and Naomi gives in. “Okay, yes, sorry. You don’t have to tell us anything.”

“You guessed?” asks Aziraphale.

“You don’t mind?” asks Crowley.

Naomi shakes her head. “We still don’t know exactly what’s up with you two, but we figured out the basics pretty early in that first year.”

“And you really don’t have to tell us any more than you’re comfortable with,” adds Yael. “We decided back then that whatever you are, you’re also good people.”

“Hey!” says Crowley, mostly to hold up his end of the joke. Yael smiles.

“Yes, Crowley, we know. But you’re family, even if you are some sort of magical immortal beings.”

Naomi continues, “And we’re glad to know you’ll probably be around for a long time.”

Yael nods, suddenly serious. “Even after we’re gone.” At Crowley and Aziraphale’s horrified look, she hastens to reassure them. “Don’t worry, we’re planning to be around for a while. But we’re _not_ immortal, and we’re hoping that our daughter outlives us by a long time. We hope that Miriam will always have you to look out for her.”

“Of course,” says Crowley with a dismissive wave, trying to get off the topic of mortality.

“She’s family, after all,” Aziraphale adds gently.

They’ve already been looking out for Miriam. Not as much as they’d like to—if it were up to Aziraphale, the girl would never have suffered the smallest childhood injury, and if it were up to Crowley, a lot more schoolyard bullies and condescending teachers would be having nightmares about things mortal minds were never meant to comprehend. But Miriam concluded at a rather young age that it was probably unethical to rely too much on miracles. It’s only been a handful of times that she’s taken advantage of having an angel and a demon literally only a phone call away.

“ _Moms_ ,” says an exasperated voice from behind Yael and Naomi.

Naomi grins. “Are you embarrassing you, sweetheart?”

“No, you’re embarrassing _them_. Mirka and Lori just got here, go say hi to them or something.” She gently shoves her mothers, and they retreat.

“I’m sorry guys, I promise I didn’t tell them!” Miriam’s eyes are wide and anxious as she looks up at them.

“We know,” Aziraphale reassures her, and she relaxes.

Crowley shrugs. “Bound to come out eventually.”

“Apparently they suspected even before you were born. I do wonder how they guessed, though,” says Aziraphale.

Miriam gives them a solemn look. “Weelll, there are a few possibilities,” she says, starting to tick reasons off her fingers. “There’s the not aging thing, though that could just be good genes. And there’s the general cluelessness about normal human things, but that could just be a really strange upbringing. Same for calling people ‘humans’ when you slip up. No one has ever seen _you”_ she points to Aziraphale “sleep, and _you_ ” at Crowley “basically never eat more than a couple bites. And neither of you never suffer from jet lag. But that could just be weird metabolisms.” It’s clear that she’s had this list prepared for some time.

“But then some stuff is harder to explain. Like how you never bring any luggage when you visit but you’re always wearing clean clothes every day. Or how either of you can clean the kitchen in under ten minutes, but only when no one’s looking.” Her serious expression slips a bit. “Naomi says that one of you once made a swan appear at one of Uncle Eli’s parties, and Yael’s pretty sure she saw Crowley make a fallen tree disappear. And you always show up on time even when every airport is shut down from bad weather. _And_ you never get in trouble with Customs when you bring in plants or food.” Her voice wavers, but she gets it back under control and frowns.

“Oh, and also, we had to get a new air mattress.” The frown cracks as she struggles to stay serious. “We can’t let guests use the old one anymore, because whenever we fill it up all the way, it starts to float.” Looking at their stunned faces, she succumbs entirely to giggles.

“Oh dear,” says Aziraphale. “And we thought we were being so discreet.”

Crowley is outraged. “Do you mean to say that all this sneaking around was completely unnecessary?!” This only makes the girl laugh harder.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I wanted to tell you, I did, but Yael and Naomi made me promise not to bring it up, because they didn’t want me to pressure you into revealing anything. And by then I’d already promised you guys I would keep it a secret, so I couldn’t tell them I already knew.” She gives in to laughter again, and this time, the two of them join in.

They all take a moment to collect themselves before Aziraphale says, “But seriously, my dear, you do know that we’ll continue to look out for you, yes?”

Crowley agrees. “You’re on our side.” He considers for a moment. “Well, unless you grow up to be _really_ awful.”

Miriam nods back, just as serious. “I know. I’ll keep looking out for you guys, too.”

It should be absurd, this human child promising to protect them. But Crowley has long since learned that you can’t underestimate humans. You can’t overestimate them either, of course. They’re just unestimatable. Not ineffable, exactly. Just human, and full of surprises.

Miriam changes the subject. “By the way, now that I’m an adult, at least religiously, will you actually tell me the story about how the world almost ended?”

“We said ‘when you’re older,’ not ‘when you’re religiously an adult,” notes Aziraphale.

“I _am_ older!”

“Tell you what,” says Crowley. “When you come and visit us, instead of the other way around, then we’ll tell you.”

Her faces lights up. “Promise?” He nods. “Great! I asked my moms last week and they already said we could go this summer!”

Crowley looks helplessly at Aziraphale. “Oops.”

“I can’t wait,” says Miriam. “I have an entire notebook of questions I’ve been saving up about it.”

“Excellent,” says Aziraphale, smiling at Crowley. “We welcome questions.”

“We might not have the answers to all of them,” Crowley warns her. “But we’ll try.”

“You guys are the best.” She sighs. “I should go talk to the other guests now. Hug?”

She hugs Aziraphale first, then turns to Crowley. He gives a dramatic sigh of resignation that completely fails to convince anyone, then lets out an “oof!” as she squeezes the breath out of him. Then she’s off to mingle.

Crowley sighs, wrapping an arm around Aziraphale and leaning into him. “We might as well tell Yael and Naomi the rest of it.”

“I’ll admit I haven’t felt entirely comfortable concealing the truth from this long, but I’ve been worried about their reaction.”

“ _You’ve_ been worried? You’re an angel. I’ve been worried Yael be under some sort of rabbinical obligation to try and exorcise me.” He tries to imagine that. “Okay, yes, I didn’t think she would actually do it, but I thought it could make things pretty blessed awkward.”

“You’re not worried about that anymore?”

“I think they’ve probably already guessed it, after Miriam’s question about demons in shul.” He brightens. “Maybe they think we’re _both_ demons!”

“I’ve been entering their temple for over a decade now, dearest.”

“Oh, right. But regardless, I don’t think they’re going to be particularly horrified.”

“But what if they can’t reconcile the information with their own belief? I still don’t feel comfortable interfering in their relationship with the Allmighty.”

Crowley thinks about all the arguments he’s had with Naomi and Yael over the years, poking and prodding and asking why, why, _why_? And their answers. _Well, the standard answer is…, but I’ve always disagreed with that._ Or _That’s what most of the commentaries say anyway, but I’ve read this fascinating alternate interpretation_ …Or his personal favorite: _I’ve always wondered about that, too. What do_ you _think, Crowley?_ That’s what he likes best about these humans. They’re happy to look for answers, but what they really love is finding better questions.

“You know,” he says slowly. “I don’t think it will. I think they’re always renegotiating that relationship. Anyway, they’d probably be happier knowing the truth, and I have a feeling that they’ll be able to handle it.”

Aziraphale smiles at him. “You trust them quite a bit, don’t you?”

“Huh. I guess I do.”

Crowley has spent so many centuries trusting only Aziraphale. It’s strange, realizing that these three humans have slipped their way in. He’d thought that Aziraphale was an exception, their trust born out of six thousand years of companionship, shared isolation from their respective sides, and the love and longing that Crowley had mistakenly assumed was unrequited. Demons aren’t supposed to be capable of love _or_ trust, but he has always been able to make an exception for Aziraphale. It’s much more unsettling to learn that there are other beings in the world that he trusts. And that he’s capable of other kinds of love. It raises an entirely new set of questions.

Maybe what he said to Miriam yesterday afternoon wasn’t entirely true. He knows he’s still a demon—he can still feel every empty place in his fractured soul, and anyway, what else could he be? He’s the demon Crowley, and always will be. But he’s no longer sure that he’s eternally damned.

*****

By early afternoon, all the guests have left. As Naomi, Yael, and Miriam are seeing the last few out the door, Crowley and Aziraphale miracle the living room clean, then assume perfectly innocent expressions. Naomi actually jumps in surprise when she walks back in and sees everything suddenly tidy. Then she starts to laugh.

“I see you’re not bothering to be subtle anymore,” says Yael.

“Well,” says Aziraphale ruefully, “Apparently we weren’t very good at subtle.”

“I still don’t see why you couldn’t have said something thirteen bloody years ago,” says Crowley.

“We figured you would tell us when you were ready,” says Yael with a shrug.

“Then why did you bring it up today?” he asks Naomi. She looks mildly embarrassed.

“Yeah, um, sorry about that. I thought you’d have an answer prepared and just laugh it off. I mean, it’s pretty standard flattery--my sister-in-law says it every time she sees me. It’s not like you have to be immortal to have people tell you how young you look. I did think it was funny, the double meaning, but I didn’t mean to put you on the spot!”

Crowley groans. “We really are terrible at this.”

“Don’t worry,” says Miriam. “It’s mostly just social stuff. It’s hard to pick up sometimes for me too, but you can learn. We can learn together, if you want.”

*****

The remainder of the day is given over to rest, as is appropriate. The being the household that it is, everyone spends their rest time reading. Even Crowley reads a bit from the latest novel that’s caught Miriam’s interest. Like many of her favorites, it features a girl and a sword and a magical talking animal—this one’s a heron, which at least has the charm of novelty. But he’s only a couple chapters in when he starts to feel sleepy. It’s been a long day already, and with sunset still a few hours away, no one is going to care if he naps. He stretches out along the sofa, resting his head in Aziraphale’s lap, and drowses while the angel absently runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair as he reads. Crowley’s glad he grew it out.

An hour or two later, Crowley wakes from his nap, feeling surprisingly alert. With his thoughts now clearer, he remembers the events of the morning and his resolution to think through them when he had a chance. He gently extricates himself from Aziraphale’s lap and stands up.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he says.

“Is something wrong?” Aziraphale asks, with a touch of concern.

“Nah, just want a quiet moment outside.” He leans over for a quick kiss and has the satisfaction of seeing Aziraphale’s slight frown replaced with a soft smile.

“I love you, you know,” says the angel. Crowley briefly considers staying right here, flopping back on the couch and wrapping his arms around Aziraphale and never letting go. But there will time for that later, and he really does need a moment to think. So instead he kisses Aziraphale again, says, “love you too,” and slips through the kitchen and into the back garden. Naomi put a bench there a few years back, right next to the azalea that has slowly taken over an entire corner of the garden. It rustles its leaves at him companionably as he approaches. Plants forgive easily, for which Crowley is grateful.

He sprawls on the bench as the sky darkens, and he thinks about the experience in the synagogue. He knew it wasn’t the perfection of the Divine, but for a brief moment, something had shone through all the cracks in his being. But when it drained away, it didn’t leave an exit wound. It hadn’t left him bereft or broken, just slightly dazed. Awestruck, if he’s being honest. These humans, singing praise up to a god that some of them didn’t even believe in, somehow they had made that ineffable brightness all on their own. Not a single miracle in sight. No angel or demon could even imagine doing something like that. _No wonder they can always outdo us in horror and grace_.

Then, with a wave of foreboding, _There’s going to be another war._ How could there not be? Crowley had always thought that what humans had to offer was entertainment and comfort, tempting enough for himself and Aziraphale, but not much to their respective former sides. But now he’s realizing that there’s more. They’ve given him imagination and trust and family, and the odd bright connection that wrapped around him that morning. The chance to make real choices. They’ve found a way to make an offering of their questions.

It’s easy to choose between Heaven and Hell, especially when you don’t think you have a choice. But Crowley is starting to understand that there’s a third option. And he knows that neither side can stand for that. They still didn’t take humans as seriously as they should, but eventually, they would have to take notice. And once they realized what people were capable of, the two sides would have a reason to overcome their eternal enmity and face the real threat. Crowley knows that one day, he and Aziraphale will have to do everything they can to prevent that war. And if it happens anyway, he knows which side they’ll be on.

He thinks about what Aziraphale will say if he tells him: that it’s part of the ineffable plan, that things will somehow turn out for best. Or at least not for the worst. His angel is an optimist, but Crowley loves him anyway.

He looks up at the darkening sky, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Is this really part of Your plan?”

There’s no answer, but he wasn’t expecting one. Doesn’t need one anymore.

He has more thinking to do, but not right now. Right now they still have time. It won’t last forever, but for now, they still have time.

The sun has disappeared below the skyline, and even the sheltered garden has become quite chilly. But there’s light and warmth just on the other side of the kitchen door. Crowley stands up, waving a casual goodbye to the azalea as he leaves the garden. Time to go back inside, to the odd group of people—humans and angel—who call themselves his family. 

*****

Inside, Naomi and Miriam are setting out they things they use on Saturday nights: wine, silver cup, spice box, and an oddly twisted candle. Miriam looks up as he enters.

“Did you see three stars?”

“When have I ever seen any stars here?” he asks.

She thinks about it. “There was the time all the power went out. Remember? It was right after the ice storm. We could see the stars then.”

“ _I_ didn’t see the stars then. I stayed inside where it was warm.”

“Well you _could_ have seen the stars.”

“Once you’re finished arguing with Crowley,” Yael says to her daughter, “would you like to be the one to leads us through Havdalah?”

Miriam’s face lights up. “Yes!”

As always, Crowley refrains from joining in the prayers. Nor does he sing along with their song about Elijah. He actually rather likes the melody, though he knows from previous visits that it will be stuck in his head for hours, but it’s just odd to sing about Elijah, of all people. They’d never gotten along—not that you’d expect a holy prophet and a demon to get along, but still. Even Aziraphale, who generally got along with prophets, had always thought Elijah was a bit much. Crowley idly wonders what Yael and Naomi would say to that.

 _We should tell them_.

He clears his throat, breaking the contemplative silence that has settled in the room.

“Er.” Everyone looks at him and the words vanish. “Ngk.” He turns to Aziraphale. “Should we?” he asks.

“I think so, yes.” The angel gives him an encouraging smile. “Perhaps we should sit, first?”

Yael puts away the things, and everyone decamps to the living room. The humans sit quietly, even Naomi, waiting for him to start. Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand, gripping as tightly as he can without hurting the angel.

“We thought, since you’ve already guessed…” he trails off, not sure what to say next.

“You really don’t have to,” Yael says. “We can wait as long as we need to, until you’re ready to tell us.”

“Anyway, we’ve already got a pretty good idea,” says Naomi cheerfully.

“ _Sweetheart._ ” There’s a touch of real exasperation in Yael’s voice, and Naomi looks appropriately chagrined.

“No! I mean, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean that you might as well tell us. I meant it in the opposite way. That you don’t have to be worried that we’re going to reject you. Whether or not you tell us. We know as much as we need to, and the rest can wait, if you need more time.”

Miriam is sitting quietly, carefully not pointing out that she already knows the truth. Crowley appreciates her discretion.

He takes a deep breath. “Look, I know how you two met. Why don’t we tell you how we met? That will explain a lot.”

Miriam’s face glows with excitement. Naomi is a little more restrained, but her eyes sparkle with curiosity. Yael just tilts her head, offering her calm friendly silence.

“Er. Az—Zira— _Aziraphale_? Can you start?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, but Crowley interrupts him. “Actually, one more thing. Visual aid, so to speak. Might as well get it all over with at once.” He pulls his sunglasses off, eyes open wide, but he doesn’t try to see Naomi or Yael’s reaction. He’s not ready to look them in the face just yet.

“Sorry, angel, go on.”

“Yes, well. As I was about to say, in the beginning, there was a garden…”

They take turns telling the story, correcting each other, quibbling where their memories differ, filling in details that the other might not know. The three humans mostly listen quietly, though Naomi can’t help giggling at Crowley’s “He _gave_ it _away!_ ” and Yael lets out a soft “hah” when Aziraphale says “ _That_ was when?” with wide eyes. Miriam already knows the basic events—come to think of it, they all know the basic events—but her face is rapt as she listens.

Even with all the digressions, there's only so much to say, and it isn’t that long before they get to the raindrops and the flicker of a fiery sword off in the distance and the very first dark and stormy night. And then it’s time for the hard part.

During the telling, Crowley has been nervously avoiding Naomi and Yael’s eyes, but now he forces himself to turn and see their reactions. It’s not that he expects them to look disgusted or afraid, it’s just that he can’t help but fear it. But as the two women meet his eyes for the first time ever, they look the same as ever. Naomi is wearing that odd considering smile she gets—the one, Crowley realizes, that always appears when he or Aziraphale has done something particularly strange. It’s that, more than anything else, that finally convinces him that they really have known something all along. Yael is also smiling, but hers is more sympathetic than anything else. They’re not shocked, or shattered, or even particularly awed. Crowley sees that Miriam has also been watching her mothers closely, but then she catches Crowley’s eye and grins at him without a trace of anxiety. And with that reassurance, Crowley is finally able to relax. He was right to trust them.

He’s shared forbidden knowledge again, but this time, no one is punished and no one is driven out.

“Sso,” he says, holding his angel’s hand and smiling at his humans. “Any questions?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. Thank you all for reading--I thought this was just going to be a 2000-word story about Crowley at a seder, and that maybe 5 people would read it. I am extremely grateful for everyone's interest and kind comments, which motivated me to make this much bigger. 
> 
> Now that this is done, please feel free to give me prompts or requests! It can be in this setting or something completely different! I need something to keep my mind occupied when I'm out hiking or walking to work.


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